BRAIN TRUST
LYNN SHOLES & JOE MOORE
BRAIN TRUST
© 2016 by Lynn Sholes & Joe Moore
All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher.
Any unauthorized usage of the text without express written permission of the publisher is a violation of the authors’ copyright and is illegal and punishable by law.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Published by Stone Creek Books
Oakland Park, Florida
www.stonecreekbooks.com
Interior design by Joe Moore
Illustration by Andrew Ostrovsky
Cover design by Joe Moore
Cover image © 2016
SPECIAL THANKS TO:
Anke Gilbert, Bob Gilbert, Dawn Clary, Di Fineout, Dick Streeter, John Davison, Kay Phillips, Melissa Walters, Nancy Valdes Franklin, Rodney Walters, Steve Kesterson and
Susan Steinhorst
Very Special Thanks To:
Roxanne Smolen
“I never saw no miracle of science
that did not go from a blessing to a curse.
~ Sting
Chapter 1 – THE INCIDENT
Dr. Brian Wheeler inserted a needle through the small port behind Eleanor Demarest’s ear. He pulled back the plunger, and the syringe filled with cerebrospinal fluid. Something didn’t seem right, but he wasn’t sure what.
His colleague removed a blue sterile cover from a stainless tray to expose the instruments required to complete the procedure. “You know she won the Pulitzer when she was only twenty-three?” Blackburn said.
Wheeler withdrew the needle. “Most people don’t have anything to say at that age, much less something worth—”
The beep of the EKG monitor changed to a constant screech. Wheeler swung the monitor screen toward him. A flat green line. He dropped the syringe, and it clanged into a metal basin. “What the hell went wrong?”
Blackburn put two fingers on the woman’s left carotid and then shook his head. He checked her wristband. “She’s a DNR—do not resuscitate—so no heroics.” He began removing the leads and electrodes from the woman.
Wheeler paced, his hands tucked in his armpits. “Jesus Christ. I shouldn’t be involved in this. I’m not a medical doctor.”
“She’s been in a coma for six months. Don’t agonize over it. What harm?”
“Harm? The woman is dead.”
Blackburn flashed a harsh expression. “Lighten up.”
“I didn’t bargain for this.”
“Yes, you did.”
Wheeler pulled on the port in the side of the dead woman’s skull. When freed, pressure from the procedure caused a short stream of blood to jet out.
Blackburn handed over a stack of gauze pads. “You knew you were getting paid handsomely for doing something—let’s put it euphemistically—out of the ordinary—not by the book. You aren’t stupid. Want to know how I could tell? You didn’t ask questions.”
“I shouldn’t have signed on for this project. Bad decision.”
Blackburn glared at him. “You need to cool down. This woman was more or less dead.”
As Wheeler daubed up the blood and blotted it out of the Eleanor Demarest’s hair, he felt Blackburn’s eyes still on him.
“Don’t bother with that.”
Wheeler shook off a chill that ran through his bones. “Seems like the right thing to do. Makes me feel more decent.”
“Atonement? Cut yourself some slack.” Blackburn came around the table and clamped a hand on Wheeler’s shoulder. “Take my advice, the company rewards discretion.” He removed his face shield and tossed it on the counter. “Look at me.”
Wheeler lifted his shield and took it off. “What?”
“This isn’t something you want to talk about. Understand?”
“Trust me, it’s not something I want to brag about.”
“Seriously, Wheeler.” Blackburn’s expression hammered the point home.
“Yeah. Okay. I get it.”
Blackburn nodded and then stared at the dead woman and shrugged. “They take too much, too often, and this is what can happen. I warned them. I’ve said it from the start.”
Wheeler pulled the sheet over the woman’s head.
“I’ll call for clean-up to get her out of here.”
“Right.” Wheeler disposed of the soaked gauze in the biohazard receptacle and then backed away from the table.
Blackburn picked up the syringe that contained the specimen collected from Demarest and deposited the contents into small vial. “Take this to the lab and go home. Get a decent night’s sleep.”
A sick feeling stirred inside Wheeler as he stood at the door. “Maybe I’ve made a big mistake.”
One of Blackburn’s bushy gray brows arched as he shot Wheeler another look that smacked of a warning. “You’ve had a bad experience. It was a fluke—probably won’t ever happen again. You’re okay with everything, aren’t you?” With a snap of his head, Blackburn gestured toward the surveillance camera.
They were being watched and recorded. “Sure.” He decided it would be best to shut up and leave.
The steel door closed behind him as he headed down the basement hallway. The fluid sloshed in the vial as he walked. He glanced at it. So this was the last of Eleanor Demarest, a woman who’d risen to the top to win the Pulitzer. In the end, her lone value swilled inside a small glass vessel. His stomach roiled.
Reichert Pharmaceuticals, the company he and Blackburn worked for, owned this facility, and Wheeler believed the ninety-two-year-old woman ended up here at Riverglen Convalescent Home because she had no family, and her attorney was on the Reichert payroll.
Eleanor Demarest was never here to convalesce.
Chapter 2 – Dunn
After he entered the on-site lab, Wheeler filled out a label for the vial containing Eleanor Demarest’s sample and handed it over to a technician. “Fix this up for me and send it over to Biogentech.” He peeled off his gloves and dropped them in the trash.
Wheeler shrugged off his lab coat, tossed it in the laundry bin, then pocketed his ID card. “I’m outta here.”
A powerful-looking man wearing a black, collared shirt, jeans, boots with silver tips, and a cowboy belt with a hefty turquoise-encrusted buckle, came out of the adjacent room. It was Roman Dunn, Chief of Security, who oversaw Biogentech’s satellite operations like the one at Riverglen. Over a year ago, Reichert Pharmaceuticals had acquired Biogentech Institute, a small genetic engineering lab, and brought in Dunn.
Wheeler’s eyes tracked to the guard’s unfriendly, ruddy face.
“Good night, Dr. Wheeler.” Dunn groomed his goatee with his fingers. His voice was deep and raspy, like a smoker with an irritable disposition. Behind wire-rimmed glasses, his flint-gray eyes were the type that would have no trouble staring down anyone.
“Good night.” Wheeler was glad he only did limited side work for Biogentech at Reichert’s request. He slipped on his windbreaker in anticipation of the cool Minneapolis air.
The elevator moaned, and the cables rattled as it carried him from the basement to the first floor of Riverglen Convalescent Home.
Wheeler exited through the back doors that led to the staff parking lot where he’d left his BMW. He took several deep breaths to flush out the laboratory chemical smells lingering in his nostrils. This job had great perks and a spectacular salary, but tonight made him question if it was worth it. His position at Reichert Pharmaceuticals allowed him to sell his old van and purchase a new titanium silver, metallic 528i. He’d come a long way from the farm. He had his car, and he had his platinum card. The years of schooling and sacrifice had paid off. He wished his parents had lived to see him get his PhD in molecular genetics though they would never have understood what that was.
Wheeler liked working for the big pharmaceutical. There was only this one aspect—this off-the-record side work for Biogentech. So far he’d been successful ignoring his conscience. Being a part of the special team blurred his judgment—until tonight. Maybe he was a science whore and Gunnar Reichert was his pimp. He should get out.
As Wheeler approached his car, he sensed movement behind him. Footfalls on the pavement? Clothes rustling? He spun around and scanned the small row of cars. Dr. Blackburn’s car sat a few spaces down from his.
“Blackburn?”
“No, it’s Dunn, Dr. Wheeler. Sorry if I startled you. Just heading home, myself.”
“Of course. Have a nice evening.”
Wheeler waited for Dunn to move into the darkness at the end of the parking row before he got in his car and drove down the long, tree-covered drive. His nerves were shot. First the Demarest woman and then Dunn seeming to appear out of nowhere. He tapped the music icon on his phone and selected an album. He felt like Lang Lang’s classical piano tonight. In a moment it was playing through his radio—relaxing music for his 12-mile ride back to Minneapolis.
The clock glowed 11:30. He leaned into the seat and stretched his arms forward, tilting his head from side to side to work out the kinks. For an instant, he thought of Becca and how good it would be to have her massage his neck. He let go of the thought. Such fantasies only added more knots to his body. Last he’d heard she was with someone else. David, Dan, Dean, something like that.
Tomorrow he’d be happy to be back beneath the glaring fluorescent lights of the main Reichert lab. It was more clinical there. He promised himself he wouldn’t think about Eleanor Demarest or the project.
“Coffee,” he said, remembering he needed a jar of instant. He had planned to pick it up that afternoon after work, but then Dr. Levine, his immediate superior at Reichert, called him in his office and told him to go out to Riverglen. Levine said that Dr. Pack, another of Gunnar Reichert’s right-hand men, had called and said they needed another sample. Wheeler knew he hadn’t hidden his distaste well, and Levine, in his incomparable, subtle way, had let Wheeler know they’d understand if he found working for Reichert unsuitable. It wasn’t for everyone. At that point, Levine had smiled. Brian Wheeler was dispensable.
He glanced in the rear-view mirror as a car came up behind him. In a moment, it was on his ass, tailgating. “Prick,” Wheeler said when the headlights switched to high beam and blinded him.
Chapter 3 – Maggie
Maggie Hayden stooped in front of the open cabinet below her television and popped a DVD in the player. When she settled into the recliner, she could still detect her husband’s scent from deep in the fabric of the chair. She chased her Lexapro with a swallow of cabernet in the glass on the end table and then turned off the light.
In the darkness, she hit the remote. A montage of home videos clipped across the TV screen—her big pregnant belly, their first day in this house, her husband, Allen, celebrating his thirtieth birthday. She smiled and continued to sip her wine as she watched Kyle ride his first trike, so bundled up for the cold it was remarkable his little knees could bend. The camera zoomed in as Kyle turned around at the end of the driveway and rode back toward them, his blond hair sneaking out beneath his red knit cap, the cold polishing his cheeks.
Christmas faded to spring, summer, and then autumn. Maggie stared at the screen as the journal of past years spun by.
She clicked off the DVD player and the television then padded down the hall. Kyle’s light was still on. She poked her head around the doorjamb. “Kyle?”
Her ten-year-old son sat at his computer. “I know, Mom,” he said, without turning around. “I promise I’ll be off in a minute.”
Maggie entered the room and stood next to him.
“I’ve got this kid online,” he said. “He goes to all the baseball shows, and he wants to trade a card with me.”
“You believe it’s a good deal?”
“Yep. My card is worth more now, but I think his card is gonna go up.”
She thumbed through the Beckett’s price guide on the desk. Kyle and his dad always had their heads together wheeling and dealing. She was an outsider when it came to baseball cards.
“Shut down soon.” She kissed the top of his head. “It’s late.”
Maggie followed the hall to her bedroom. The king-size bed loomed in front of her. In the master bath she ripped her brush through her hair and then threw the brush in the sink. “Damn.” When is this going to end? She planted her palms on the edge of the vanity and dropped her chin to her chest. Fury boiled inside. Wasn’t the damn Lexapro supposed to take care of this?
Maggie took a deep breath through her nose and then blew it out her mouth.
Then another.
And another.
The heat within her waned. It was over—for the moment. She splashed water on her face and returned to Kyle.
“Okay, okay,” he said and powered down the computer. Kyle flopped on the bottom bunk and stared up at his mother.
“You’ve been so brave. You are a strong young man. Strong like your dad was.”
He turned on his side, his back to his mother. “Not really.” Then Kyle rolled over to look at her, his blue eyes—Allen’s eyes—shiny with tears. “I wish we didn’t live here. I hate it.”
Maggie exhaled. “This is our home.”
Jocko, the family boxer-mix, jumped onto the end of Kyle’s bed and rested his head on his paws.
“Who’s been bothering you?” she asked.
“Kids at school. They’re stupid.”
“We’ve talked about this before. They don’t know anything about your dad. Most of them never even met him. You can’t pay attention to what they say. Your dad was a terrific father and a good man. His car accident didn’t happen because of drugs. He was on his way home from work. The roads were wet. He lost control. That’s all. Nothing more.”
“Then why did the newspapers say he was on cocaine?”
“The reports got mixed up or something.”
“Can’t you make them tell the truth?”
“I’ve tried. But in the end it won’t bring Daddy back. We’ve got to let it go. Your father would want us to move on with our lives. What matters is we know the truth.” Maggie swept her son’s hair from his forehead. “It’ll get better. I promise. It won’t be long before everyone will have forgotten all about it. Something new will get their attention.” She switched off the nightstand lamp and scratched Kyle’s back. Her boy was so young, and it was unfair he had to hurt like this. She’d figure out a way to change their lives.
In a few minutes, Maggie got up and stood in the doorway looking over her shoulder. It was a typical boy’s room with sports posters on the walls. Trophies from BMX racing, soccer, and baseball lined the shelves. A stray sock and shoe sat in the middle of the floor. Kyle never wanted to be anything other than a normal kid.
And that was the way they had raised him.
There was nothing in his room to suggest what he really was.
Chapter 4 – Quick Stop
Wheeler shot the guy in the car behind him a middle-finger salute before he pulled into the parking lot of the convenience store. The tailgater sped on down the road. Inside the Quick Stop, he grabbed a small jar of Taster’s Choice and headed to the counter. Two teenagers stood in line in front of him at the register, a six-pack of beer in each hand.
“ID,” the clerk said.
One boy turned to the other. “Got your license on ya?”
The kid shook his head and set the beer on the counter. “Guess I left it at home.”
The clerk hiked a brow and shrugged. “No ID, no beer. Sorry. Gotta card you. That’s the law.”
“I’ll come back later and show you,” the kid said.
“Fine, come back with ID, and it’s yours.”
The first kid shook his stringy brown hair out of his eyes, exposing a thin braid underneath. “Asshole,” he mumbled as he left the store, the other teen close behind.
“Today’s kids,” the clerk said as he rang up Wheeler’s coffee.
Wheeler glanced out the window. The two boys sat in a dented pickup, probably trying to figure out what to do next.
“You all right, mister?” the clerk asked.
The question puzzled him. “Yeah, I’m fine. Why?”
“Your neck.”
Wheeler glanced up into the surveillance mirror. There was a small spatter of blood on the side of his neck and a stain on his collar where it had dripped down.
Shit. Eleanor Demarest’s blood. He handed the clerk the payment for his coffee, counting out the exact change from coins in his pocket. Wheeler grabbed the Taster’s Choice, not waiting for a bag, and headed out the store.
In the car, he spit on the tail of his shirt and scrubbed his neck with it. He started to remove the shirt and toss it in the passenger seat, but the cold air changed his mind.
As he pulled into the street, he thought of the tragic death of the woman in the lab, and it forced him to take a hard, honest look at himself. He wasn’t pleased.
Wheeler had been thrilled when Levine told him he’d been handpicked to participate in this special project. The operation was so top secret the only thing explained to him about it was his responsibilities—at times do some unofficial work for Biogentech. He was not to discuss his activities with anyone, in or out of the company. Levine had leaned over his desk and spoken so low it was almost a whisper. “And Dr. Wheeler, Reichert Pharmaceuticals takes care of its own. I’m sure you’ll be more than content with the substantial monthly bonus for being part of the special team.” Levine wrote a figure on a piece of paper and then pushed it across the desk.
Wheeler stared at the proposed salary. Generous didn’t begin to describe it.
The money and prestige pumped up his ego. There was excitement and pride in being involved in such a high-security project, a sense of superior status for being a member of the inside loop. But today he’d performed a procedure on a woman, and she died. He wasn’t qualified to do what Reichert expected of him—not on humans. He knew it deep down, and he hadn’t spoken up.
A few miles down the road Wheeler squinted as bright lights shone in his mirror again. He pressed down on the accelerator and with one hand, he shaded his eyes from the glare. Was every stinking moron in the world on the road with him tonight?
It had to be the two kids from the convenience store, but he couldn’t make out the vehicle due to the intensity of the headlights blinding him. They were looking for somebody to harass, ticked off at the universe because they hadn’t gotten their beer.
The car stayed on his fender, first nosing, and then bumping it. Jerks were screwing up his new car. He thought about stomping on the brakes and making the punks plow into his rear end. The accident would be their fault. It might teach them a lesson. But with his luck, they wouldn’t have any insurance, and his BMW would receive the worst of it. They’d get bored in a minute—pull out into the other lane and fly past him in a brandishing of adolescent testosterone.
But they didn’t. They kept coming at him, getting rougher, keeping the brights in his eyes, ramming the back of his car.
The vehicle pulled up alongside and squeezed against him. Wheeler opened his window to shout at them. The tinted glass of the other car didn’t allow him to see in, but he knew it wasn’t the kids’ old pickup. This was a Yukon or Denali.
The SUV thumped his rear quarter panel. Wheeler swerved. The right tires wobbled on the shoulder of the road, and the gravel sprayed up under the Bimmer. He jerked left, and the BMW vibrated as it spun over the shoulder and then back onto the road.
The SUV slammed him, pulled away, and then came in at a tighter angle.
He wrestled with the steering wheel as his car veered off the road and careened into the roadside brush, missed the first white pine, but glanced off the next. The BMW did a one-eighty before it crashed over a stump and went into a death roll.
Chapter 5 – Crash
The seatbelt sawed Wheeler’s neck as he bashed over into the passenger door. The airbag deployed and struck him in the face and chest like a giant, ninety-mile-an-hour fastball. Chemicals from the airbag sifted into his lungs. As instantaneous as the inflation and impact of the airbag were, the deflating was just as rapid. The rollover thrust him back toward the driver’s door, and his head collided with the doorframe. The car flipped again then came to rest upside down against a tree trunk.
Wheeler hung suspended by the seatbelt. He blinked several times as if it might help him get a better handle on his condition. Blood trickled from his forehead, and his chest and shoulder ached. His eyes roamed, and he caught sight of the light from one of the BMW’s headlights that shone a beam toward the road. There was no sign of light from the other headlight.
He wiped his face and felt the warmth and stickiness of the blood. Wheeler unlatched the seatbelt and dropped free. He edged through the open window and flopped out onto the ground. Afraid the car would catch on fire, he dragged himself away on hands and knees until he felt he was clear. With a grunt, he propped against a tree and closed his eyes. Damn, he hurt everywhere.
At least he was alive. Could have been worse, he thought as he squinted at his wrecked car. “Son of a bitch.” He started to his feet but fell back with a groan. He waited a moment before making a successful effort to stand.
A movement ahead stopped him dead. Someone crossed in the lone headlight beam. It was either help or the jackass who ran him off the road.
Wheeler pressed his back against the bark and hoped the shadows covered him.
The figure appeared again, skulking in the dark—a man’s silhouette, a little over six-feet tall, Wheeler guessed—alone. But a second person could be waiting on the road.
The man crossed the column of light once more, and this time was close enough for Wheeler to get a good look. The headlight illuminated his face. Goatee and wire-rimmed glasses. Roman Dunn.
Thank God, Wheeler thought. He laughed at his paranoia. Dunn would give him a ride home after they called a tow truck. At last, a little good luck. He was ready to call out when Dunn got to the BMW.
Wheeler balked as the big man reached in his jacket and pulled out a handgun then leaned over and aimed it through the driver’s window.
Chapter 6 – Pictures in Her Head
Maggie and Kyle stepped in the elevator of the Capital Medical Arts Building along with a couple of other people. “Two please,” she said.
Kyle glanced up at his mother with a serious expression. “They could make voice-activated elevators. Then if the elevator was crowded, nobody would have to ask somebody else to push a button for them. And if a person was blind and couldn’t read braille . . .”
“You should be an engineer or an inventor.”
The elevator dinged, and the doors opened on the second floor. Maggie put her hand on Kyle’s shoulder, and they headed down the hall to the doctor’s office. She dreaded these appointments with the psychologist. Each visit seemed to stir the pot—bring up all the raw emotions she tried to stop from boiling over. But she hoped the sessions might help Kyle. So, she kept up the visits.
Dr. Campbell took Maggie in first. The doctor settled in a leather chair and pushed her eyeglasses up on the top of her head. The frames pulled her hair back like a headband, revealing a widow’s peak.
The word widow echoed in Maggie’s head as she sat.
“How has the week gone?” Dr. Campbell asked.
Telling the doctor the truth felt like confessing to some wrongdoing. “I watched the videos of us again.”
The psychologist remained quiet as if she waited for more.
In a moment Maggie said, “You know when I got to the hospital the day Allen had the accident, I was so in shock that I didn’t cry. I sent Kyle home with a neighbor before I agreed to discontinue the life support. When Allen’s heart and breathing stopped, when he died, I didn’t cry, either. I wanted to. I felt guilty that I wasn’t sobbing. But there was nothing left inside me.”
“That’s not uncommon.” Dr. Campbell folded her hands.
“This time when I watched the videos of us, it was like that. I was empty. I didn’t have the energy to cry again.”
“That seems to bother you.”
“I loved Allen.” Maggie took a tissue from the box on the desk. Her voice choked. “I should have cried.” She gazed at the doctor. “I was too spent.”
“You responded the best way you could at the moment. There’s no shame in that. Have you planned a time and place every day to grieve like we discussed?”
“Yes.” She turned her eyes away and shifted in her seat. It was uncomfortable laying out her deepest feelings and thoughts.
“A specified time to grieve gives you permission to do that. And, it allows you to get through the rest of the day, to put that pain aside so your life can go on.”
There was a prolonged pause in the conversation.
“Okay, I think I understand,” the doctor said. “You planned a time, but you haven’t done it.”
“That’s right.” Maggie’s body stiffened. “I can’t schedule my emotions. You want me to plan a specific time to feel sad even if that minute and hour of the day I’m lucky enough to have escaped the anguish and heartache? Those moments are few and far between, and I’ll take them when I can.” Maggie shook her head. “Why would I rob myself of a single torture-free second? Besides, it’s artificial.”
“What have you done to help yourself? Moving on is all up to you. It won’t happen on its own.”
Maggie stayed quiet while she collected herself, and Dr. Campbell didn’t push her. Several minutes later, Maggie spoke. “I’ve thought about taking a week off from work to get away.” She stared out the window. “But I don’t have any money. Allen was building the business. Things were looking up.” She returned her gaze to the psychologist. “The company was growing, and we sank every penny back into the business. It took all of my earnings to pay the household bills.” She pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes. “I don’t think I can hang on to the house.” Her voice cracked. She stood and stifled the onslaught of tears. Maggie snatched another tissue, paced, and then came to stand in front of the window. “I’ve started to search on the Internet for apartments. Kyle hates where we live. I want to take him somewhere fresh, but I need my tenure. I can’t afford to start over. And you know about Kyle. I have to be careful.”
Maggie thought back to the time she and Allen had made promises about their son. From infancy, they had known he was different, bright, but when the psychologist tested Kyle and told them his IQ, Allen had gotten up and walked out of the office. It was the only time she’d ever seen her husband so distressed. He didn’t want his son to be a freak. That was when they had made the promise that Kyle would lead a normal life. They’d see that his education was the best, but they’d also make sure he had a normal childhood filled with normal boy kinds of things.
She and Allen had kept their promise.
“Tell me where you see yourself a year from now,” Dr. Campbell said. “What will you be doing?”
Maggie tossed back her hair and returned to the couch. She wanted to cut the visit short and leave, but instead she unleashed her thoughts, and they rambled out. “I see myself going to work every day, passing that damn intersection where the accident happened because I can’t avoid it without adding another twenty minutes to my commute, feeling my guts torn out every time I pass it, and when I shut my eyes at night seeing Allen in that hospital bed, his swollen gray face fading into the sheets, his body with winding tubes probing him everywhere.”
“I want you to put that image out of your mind. Try something for me.” Dr. Campbell rose and walked over to a chaise lounge. She patted it. “Come sit on this and lie back. Let’s see if we can relieve your stress.” She smiled as Maggie approached and then reclined on the chaise.
“I want you to toss out all thoughts that nag at you and only concentrate on my voice. Close your eyes.” Dr. Campbell sat in the small chair beside Maggie. “Take a deep breath. Breathe deep from your belly.”
Maggie pulled in a full breath, expanding her chest and abdomen as far as she could.
“Now let it out, and as you do, breathe out all negativity. Once more.”
Dr. Campbell then described in rich detail a beautiful meadow for Maggie to imagine. “Here, there is tranquility. This is a place where you can always find peace. Enjoy the beauty and serenity. Sink into it. Body, mind, and spirit.” The doctor remained silent for a few moments. “Are you there?”
“Yes.” Maggie’s voice was soft and dreamy.
“This is what I want you to visualize every night when you go to bed. Picture yourself in this place, feeling and doing what you are experiencing now.”
Maggie flashed open her eyes. Who was she kidding? She couldn’t change things just because she painted pretty pictures in her head.
Chapter 7 – What is the Harvest?
Wheeler moved behind the tree and stood flush against it. Why would Dunn . . .? Then he recalled the surveillance camera in the lab and the way Blackburn had given him that cautionary look. Had security monitored their conversation? Had Dunn watched him through the camera and decided to be a cowboy? No way would the company have authorized him to do this. It was outrageous. No security guy in his right mind, head of the unit or not, would make this kind of call on his own. No, Dunn was as big a dick as a drunken bully.
For Christ’s sake, he’d only commented that he might have made a mistake. But a woman died. What did they expect? She wasn’t a lab rat. Eleanor Demarest was a living human being—or had been until he’d screwed with her brain.
Dunn shone a flashlight in the car and then focused it about the surroundings.
Wheeler blinked away a trickle of blood from his eye. He had to get out of here. Staying in the protection of the darkness of the forest, he backed away and then tracked through the chilly woods. This guy, Dunn, was dangerous.
Wheeler felt for his cell phone to call the cops, but found the belt holster empty. The accident must have jarred his phone loose. He’d wait for Dunn to leave and go back to search the car. But then he had second thoughts. Forget the police. Report this whole bizarre fiasco to Levine or even Gunnar Reichert himself. The company rewards discretion. He’d heard rumors of how Levine rose to his high-level position by earning Gunnar Reichert’s respect. The guy had handled a situation that could have become a scandal if it had leaked outside Reichert Pharmaceuticals. It would have cost the company millions, perhaps billions, after a devastating recall, plus another unimaginable bundle in lawsuits. Levine had kept the problem under wraps and resolved all the issues in house. Wheeler would be happy to receive a bit of Reichert’s gratitude.
And this Roman Dunn, he had a set of balls—big brass elephant nuts. Reichert Pharmaceuticals was a major player in the industry and a well-respected corporation. Gunnar Reichert would not be pleased that an underling loose cannon was carrying out security like a two-bit Mafia hit man. Talk about a potential scandal. Wheeler hoped he would have the satisfaction of watching the corporate ax fall on Dunn’s neck.
As he made his way back to the convenience store, he stayed in the tree line, close to the road. Now and again, a crack of a twig behind him or the snap of a dry, brittle branch froze him in place. He kept a lookout for Dunn, but so far, so good. With every step his anger bloated. It swelled up from his belly into his chest. Thoughts of things he would say to Reichert blasted through his mind like a fire’s back draft. Sometimes he even said phrases and ideas aloud, feeling good to let it out. When he finished with Gunnar Reichert, the CEO would realize how indebted to Wheeler he should be for keeping the incident to himself and exercising exemplary discretion.
At last, the glow of the store lights stippled the tree trunks. His head had ceased bleeding, but old blood felt crusty in his brows and on his face. His torn shirt hung raggedly, and his body ached. Better than dead.
He stopped short of the parking lot and attempted to improve his appearance. He raked his fingers through his dark hair, tucked in his shirt, and straightened the collar.
The clerk appeared apprehensive as he watched Wheeler enter through the glass door.
“I had an accident,” Wheeler said. “Would it be okay to use your phone?” As he searched his wallet for his AAA card, he realized how much blood splattered his shirt and pants.
The clerk pulled the cordless phone from behind the counter. “You all right? Want me to call the paramedics?”
“I’m okay, but I need a tow. I must have dozed off for a second and run off the road.”
While Wheeler made a call, the clerk filled a plastic baggie with ice from the soft drink dispenser.
“For your eye,” the clerk said after Wheeler handed the phone back.
~~~
It was 2:45 A.M. when the tow truck pulled away from Wheeler’s apartment building. They’d dropped his car in the holding lot of the body shop. Wheeler retrieved his phone from under the front seat. The tow driver had been kind enough to give him a ride home and refused a generous tip.
“Slow night,” the driver had said. “Got nothing better to do.”
Inside, Wheeler ambled to the bathroom where he stripped and then showered. When done, he dried off and wrapped a towel around his waist. He stood in front of the mirror and got his first good look at his injuries. His neck was red and raw where the seatbelt had rasped the flesh, and his shoulders sported a few colors from the airbag. He lifted his arms and moaned with the discomfort. His ribs hurt, but there were no surface signs of injury. His face was another story. Despite the ice the clerk had given him, there was a ping-pong ball knot above his left eye that distorted the outside edge of his brow and eyelid. The gash, not long but deep, could use a stitch or two. Other scratches on his face and hands must have come from his trek through the woods. He searched the medicine cabinet until he found peroxide, cotton, and the box of Steri-Strips he had purchased when he’d sliced his hand on an open can lid a month ago.
Wheeler pitched the towel over the curtain rod and then made his way to the kitchen. From a bottom cabinet, he pulled out a bottle of Clan McGregor Scotch and poured a shot. He grimaced as he swallowed, then poured two fingers of the whisky into an old fashioned glass. He could afford single malts, but the cheap Clan McGregor was the poison of his choice because it had been his dad’s favorite.
His father, Ray Wheeler, had been a decent man. With nothing but a ninth-grade education, he knew farming and could smell out a good plot of soil.
His mother was as resourceful as his dad. She knew how to feed her family on scraps and bones. Both of his parents had an abundance of practical smarts but no notion of the things he’d studied. Would never know. After today, he should thank God for that.
Wheeler finished his drink while he streamed Swordfish on his TV. His ass would be dragging in the morning when the alarm went off at 6:00 A.M. And it was a big day at work. He had recommended Todd Wylie, an old college friend, for a job at Reichert, and he’d gotten it. Wheeler was supposed to show him around the place tomorrow. Now he had second thoughts about what he’d gotten his friend into. Maybe he should advise Wylie to forget working for Reichert. And maybe he would quit, too, especially if Gunnar Reichert didn’t come up with a hefty form of compensation for what he’d been through tonight.
Wheeler turned off the television and all the lights and then trudged to his bedroom. As he crawled into bed, he wished he was slipping in next to Becca’s nude body all warm with sleep. He’d pull her against him and nuzzle her neck beneath her hair. She’d let out a little moan, first of protest and then of pleasure. But the sheets were cold, and Becca wasn’t there. Far away, she was snuggled up next to someone else. Her new man’s name came to him. Dean. Yeah, Dean Ryder. And it was Dean’s arm draped over Becca’s warm body tonight, not his.
God, he just wanted to go to sleep, not to think about Becca, Roman Dunn, or Eleanor Demarest. He tossed and tucked his pillow beneath his head. What kind of project had he committed himself to? What were they doing with this shit they were harvesting from people’s brains, anyway?
Chapter 8 – Stats
The coach called out, “Good eye! Good eye!” when Kyle didn’t swing at the bad pitch.
Maggie crossed her fingers.
Kyle raised the bat to his shoulder and dug his feet in the dirt. He circled the Louisville Slugger then tapped the plate. His elbows flared, his knees bent. The pitch came straight over the plate. Maggie’s heart pounded. Kyle swung and connected. The wooden Slugger made that wonderful cracking noise that couldn’t be imitated by aluminum bats.
“Yes!” Maggie cheered, sprung to her feet, stretching her 5’ 4” frame to watch her son tag first, and then slide into second.
The new batter came on deck.
A man from higher in the stands moved down and sat next to her. “Was that your boy?”
Maggie turned to face him. “Yes.”
“He’s good.”
“Thanks. He loves baseball.”
“My boy, too. I’m Bill Hurst. That’s my son, Matt, up to bat.”
“Oh,” she said. “I haven’t been to many of the practices this season. I only know a few of the boys from my school.”
“You teach?”
“Art, at Pinecrest Elementary.”
“How do you do it? Work with kids all day long?”
“I like it.”
“You’d have to. Now me, I deal with things that can’t talk back.”
Maggie offered a look of interest. “What?”
“I do research for a pharmaceutical house.”
“That must be interesting.” She turned back to the field.
“Matt claims he and Kyle are the best on the team,” Bill said.
Matt hit a double and Kyle came home, safe.
When the game was over, the team celebrated with Cokes from the concession stand.
“Hope the season goes as great as tonight,” Bill said. “My wife, Ingrid, would have enjoyed the game, but she’s very pregnant and sitting in the stands gets uncomfortable.”
Maggie felt a sense of relief knowing he was married and not coming on to her for a date.
Matt and Kyle ran toward the stands, bobbling their drinks, faces aglow with victory.
“Good game,” Kyle shouted to a member of the other team as they passed.
When the boys reached Bill and Maggie, most of the soda had been drunk or spilled.
“Can Matt sleep over?”
“It’s all right with me,” Maggie said.
“Are you sure?” Bill asked. “They’re wound up.”
Maggie was surprised at the quick response. Just like a man to give the okay without even knowing me or checking with the mom. “Do you want to make sure it’s okay with your wife first?”
“Yeah, yeah. Good idea.”
Bill stepped away with his cell phone and in a moment he returned. “It’s fine with Ingrid. She’s the boss. She says Matt talks about Kyle all the time. She said she feels like she already knows both you and Kyle.” He looked at his son. “Don’t be wild. Good manners.”
“They’ll be fine,” Maggie said. “We need a little silliness around our house.”
~~~
The boys sat on the bottom bunk with part of Kyle’s baseball card collection in front of them. Matt turned the plastic pocket pages. “You’ve got a great collection.”
“I’ve got the whole Donruss boxed set for 1992, ‘93, and ‘94. They’re up there.” Kyle pointed to the shelf in the top of his closet. “They were my dad’s.”
“Cool.” Matt moved to the middle of the closet and stared up at the boxes.
“Know what I want for my birthday?” Kyle asked. “Either a 1990 Leaf, Frank Thomas card or an ‘89 Upper Deck, Ken Griffey.”
“Whoa, that would be awesome.”
Kyle’s shoulders dropped. “Probably won’t get it though. Since my dad died, we’ve had to be real careful with money.”
Matt came back to the bed and turned the next page in the card album. The boys poured over the cards. Matt stopped now and again to comment on what he knew were the best ones.
“Hey, you’ve got a ‘64 Al Kaline. Wow!”
“My dad got it for me last Christmas.”
Matt turned over the card. “Two hundred fifteen home runs. RBI’s—”
“Eight hundred eighty-nine,” Kyle finished for him.
“You remember that?”
Kyle grinned. “At bat five thousand, four hundred fifty-four times. Runs, eight hundred eighty-one.”
Matt studied the card. “What was his best year?”
“1961. Batting average was .324.”
“No kidding,” Matt said. “That’s crazy. You must really like Al Kaline.”
“He’s okay. I know most of them.”
“Get out. No way.” Matt flipped through the pages, took out a card, and looked at the back. “Miguel Cabrera, 2013. How many home runs?”
“Three hundred sixty-six.”
Kyle spouted the stats for a few more before Matt slapped the book closed. “Geez. How do you do that?”
“I don’t know.” Kyle shrugged. “Numbers and stuff like that are easy for me.”
“What kind of grades do you get in math?”
“A’s mostly. But I don’t do as good in reading,” Kyle added.
“Can you do anything else?”
“What do you mean?”
“You know, like the stats. You got any other tricks?”
“It’s not a trick, I just remember them.”
“Do you do anything else weird like that?”
“Sorta. I do long division in my head, junk like that.”
Matt sat at the computer desk and powered up the PC. “Hold on, I got one for you.” He clicked the calculator icon.
Kyle put the cards back in their proper slots while Matt keyed in a math problem.
“Okay,” Matt said. “What is nine hundred eighty-four divided by six?”
“One hundred sixty-four.”
“No, crap!” Matt turned from the monitor to Kyle. “My dad would give anything if I could do math like that. He’s so good at it that he gets mad when he helps me with homework.”
“It’s not that big a deal.”
Matt’s solemn face lifted. “What about this one, fifty-two thousand, six hundred ninety-six divided by eight?” He entered the problem on the computer calculator.
Kyle stared at the ceiling a moment. “Six thousand, five hundred eighty-seven.”
Matt’s head popped up with his mouth open, and he looked at Kyle. “How did you do that?”
“I don’t know. I just do it,” Kyle said. “I can’t explain it.”
Kyle went on rummaging through the cards while Matt stared at him for a long time.
Chapter 9 – Wylie
Todd Wylie swung by Wheeler’s apartment and drove him to the body shop to drop off the car key, do the paperwork, and then on to work.
“Hey, listen, thanks for the ride,” Wheeler said.
“No problem. I was already up when you called. Couldn’t sleep. Anxious about the new job.” Wylie glanced over at his passenger. “Insurance should total your car if you ask me. Now that I saw the Bimmer, I’ve got to wonder how you came out of it alive. Your face looks like you were in a bar fight and lost. Man, you need to buy lottery tickets. Makes me feel golden, too. I’ve almost dozed off at the wheel while driving a few times.”
“Looks worse in the daylight.”
“Your face or the car?”
“Both.” Wheeler laughed. “I should have gone straight home after work.” He hated to lie, but for now it was best. He’d fill in his friend after everything settled. “It was a long day, and I stopped and had a couple of beers on the way home. I’m sure it couldn’t have been later than eleven. The day at work was brutal, I was tired, and the beer didn’t help. I should have gone straight home and crashed. Instead, I crashed into a tree.”
Wylie pulled the car into his designated spot with his name in fresh paint on the curb. “Some hot shots, we are.” He gave Wheeler a high five. “Let’s go, Rocky.”
“Hope this job works out for you. You get plenty of perks and opportunities. Reichert takes care of its own I’m told. So far I’ve found it to be true.”
“It’s going to be great. I appreciate you recommending me for the job.”
“Hey, you’d have gotten it on your own merits. I put you in the line of applicants, that’s all.” He slapped his friend on the back and nodded toward the building. “Have at it.”
They signed in at the security desk. “I’ll catch you in about thirty minutes,” Wheeler said. “I need to straighten out my desk and check emails.”
“It’s a deal.”
“Know where you’re going?” Wheeler asked. He pushed the elevator button.
Wylie pointed at the hall to his right. “Down there, third door on the left. Human Resources. Got to pick up my badge.”
Wheeler gave him a thumbs-up as the elevator doors closed.
~~~
“He’s addicted to pleasure,” Wheeler commented to Wylie as they passed a caged lab rat close to the size of domestic cat, but painfully thin.
Wylie paused for a better look at the animal.
“He’ll self-stim himself to death. Literally. Won’t eat or sleep, just keep hitting that button over and over until he drops dead. We’re trying to isolate and identify proteins that exist around those receptors in the brain.”
“Not such a bad way to check out.”
The lank male rat nudged a red button wired to the cage. The animal hunched his hindquarters several times and then shuddered.
Wylie looked at Wheeler for an explanation.
Wheeler pointed to the monitor that displayed the rat’s EEG. “As soon as he presses that button, he’s rewarded with a stimulating jolt from the electrode implanted in the medial amygdala, another in the orbitofrontal cortex, and another spot in the brain, but I can’t remember where. Oh, and one in his spine. In other words, when he pushes that button, he has a powerful orgasm.”
Wylie checked out the rat again. “The dude’s hung.”
Wheeler laughed, and they continued to stroll through the lab and on to the offices.
“I’ll bet you could get a lot of people to volunteer to be a part of a study like that,” Wylie said.
“You volunteering?” Wheeler raised his hand to rap on Dr. Levine’s office door.
Wylie touched Wheeler’s arm and postponed the knock. “Brian, I’ve got to say thanks one more time.”
“Sure. You’d have done the same for me.”
They’d met several years ago at Purdue while getting their doctorates and formed a fast friendship. Wheeler survived on financial aid and a special internal drive he believed God awarded those who didn’t have money—a gut need to get things done and do them better than anyone else. Todd Wylie, on the other hand, came from a privileged background and was motivated by fear of disappointing his family. That he would have to work harder than most to prove himself because of his race had been drilled into him since childhood although he was confident society had changed over the course of his father’s lifetime.
While their buddies partied, Wylie and Wheeler spent most nights studying until they couldn’t stay awake any longer. Wheeler kept a poster of a Corvette over his desk as a reminder of why he was working so hard. But by the time he graduated, his choice of vehicle had changed to something more subtle and sophisticated—a car that would announce to the world that Brian Wheeler had arrived. BMW.
Wylie’s inspiration was a faded tintype of his great-great grandmother who had been a slave on a South Carolina plantation.
After finishing at Purdue, they kept in touch. When Wylie expressed unhappiness with his job, Wheeler encouraged him to apply at Reichert. An excellent recommendation from Wheeler helped land Wylie an interview.
“Still, I owe you,” Wylie said.
Wheeler smiled and knocked on Levine’s door. “If you ever screw up, this is the guy who will chew your ass and spit it out.”
“I got that impression during my interview.”
“He’s fair, but doesn’t put up with any crap, and he’s a direct line to the big kahuna, so watch yourself.”
Wheeler opened the door at Levine’s invitation. “Good morning, sir. I’m showing Dr. Wylie around. Giving him the grand tour.”
“Excellent,” Levine said across a cluttered desktop. “You okay, Dr. Wheeler?” He grimaced as his eyes roamed over Wheeler’s bruises and cuts.
“Car accident last night. It looks worse than it is. Minor scratches and contusions.”
“Make sure you get checked out at the infirmary, just in case.”
“Will do, sir.”
Levine waved his hand over the desk. “I usurp every square inch. It’s new, so I enjoy showing it off. Louis Philippe, cherry wood with a chocolate patina. Italian, I think. Very expensive. Quite an impressive piece if you can dismiss my untidiness. As you can see Dr. Wylie, this company treats its faithful employees with respect. Isn’t that right, Dr. Wheeler?” He didn’t wait for a reply and turned to the new man, stood, and extended his hand.
Even a full three inches shorter than Wheeler’s six feet, Wheeler perceived Levine as large. It had to be because he admired Levine, his position and power within the corporation.
“Good to see you, Dr. Wylie,” Levine said. “Hope your morning orientation wasn’t too boring. On behalf of Reichert Pharmaceuticals, I must say we are delighted to have you on board.”
Wheeler knew just how happy the company was. Todd Wylie was not only a good biochemist, he was black, and that spelled federal grant money, the green blood that helped keep Reichert Pharmaceuticals projects alive.
Wheeler’s mother was one-half Native American—Cheyenne. He had her bronze skin, black straight hair and claimed her ethnic heritage, so the corporation welcomed him with the same enthusiasm. The deal he’d gotten from Reichert was sweet. Wylie had to have gotten an equivalent offer.
“Would you excuse us a minute?” Levine said, directing his eyes to Wylie, his eyebrows raised.
It took Wylie a moment to respond. “Oh. Sure.” He stepped out of the room.
After the door closed, Levine returned to his chair and tugged at the knot in his silk tie. He stretched his neck and leaned his head back so his eyes looked toward the ceiling. He remained that way long enough to make Wheeler uncomfortable and anxious about what he had on his mind. After a few “dead” moments, Levine sat straight, interlocked his fingers over his abdomen, and glared at Wheeler. “I got a call early this morning. I understand that last evening there was a bit of a problem. An incident.”
Chapter 10 – In-House
Wheeler dropped into the leather chair opposite Levine. Was this going to be about Dunn or the dead Eleanor Demarest? He’d have to wait for Levine to play his hand.
“Yes, if that’s what we’re calling it. An incident,” Wheeler said. That left the door wide open.
“It’s no more and no less than that. An incident. Things like this happen. They can’t be avoided in this line of work. Blow it off, Dr. Wheeler. Don’t let it get to you. Take Blackburn’s advice.”
So, Levine had heard either Blackburn’s story or Dunn’s, or perhaps both. He may have even seen a video of what happened. “Yes, sir. I slept on it. First time I’ve had the experience of someone dying in front of me.” Wheeler watched Levine tap his finger atop his other hand. As he talked, it occurred to him he should start with Levine instead of going straight to Reichert with the story about Dunn. He’d only spoken to Gunnar Reichert face-to-face twice since he’d been employed here. He’d gotten the impression that the CEO was aloof and unapproachable. It might be a more appropriate protocol to observe the hierarchy, the company’s chain-of-command, and start with Dr. Levine. He wouldn’t be able to get to Reichert, anyway. He’d heard the big guns were coming in this morning, and Reichert would be tied up in a board meeting.
“You’re saying that after thinking about it, you do not have problems coping with your responsibilities. That’s good, Dr. Wheeler. The work you do for us and your confidentiality are important.”
“I understand that.”
“We handpicked you and the others on the team. If we weren’t positive you were the best, you wouldn’t be here.”
“I like my job. I’m happy working for Reichert. But this particular project . . . it makes sense for you to put someone else on it who has a broader background than I do. I’m not an M.D. I feel responsible for that woman’s death.”
“You can’t think of it that way.”
“I shouldn’t have been assigned to the project. Replace me with someone who has more medical skills.” Wheeler wanted to question the project’s specifics but concluded that would go too far. He didn’t want to be terminated, merely released from the project.
“You weren’t giving her medical attention or services. There is a distinction.” Levine straightened a stack of papers. “The incident is too fresh. You need to give it more time. We value you and wouldn’t want to lose you. Will you at least reflect on what I’ve told you and allow yourself to digest it? Put it all in perspective. The Biogentech projects are engaged in evolving science. We recognize that we’ll hit snags. This is cutting edge science that we expect to make an impact in the industry unlike any ever seen before. Therefore, I suggest you take your time and come to terms with the magnitude of what you’re doing. Can you do that before you make any rash conclusions?”
Wheeler’s gut reaction was to say no, but at this point it might be wise to placate Levine and wait to talk to Gunnar Reichert. “Yes, I can do that.”
“Good.” Levine got to his feet.
“But there is something that concerns me I would like to discuss with you.”
“Really?” Levine lowered himself into his chair. “What is that?”
“There’s a member of the security personnel, the chief of security at Biogentech who oversees the security aspect of our projects at Riverglen. Roman Dunn. Know him?”
“Yes. I think we’ve met.”
Wheeler’s jaw flexed and tensed as he conveyed the account of Dunn running him off the road then coming for him, gun in hand. Levine questioned him about how Wheeler interpreted the event. He also had him stop and backup to retell portions.
“That was the accident you spoke about earlier that resulted in your injuries? Are you sure he intended to run you off the road? Perhaps it was just what you said—an accident.”
“At first, I thought it was the kids from the convenience store fooling around like teenagers do. But he hit my car several times and then crashed into it to force me off the road. It was no accident.”
“When you saw him in the woods, are you sure he wasn’t out there trying to help you? To rescue you?”
Agitated, Wheeler shifted in his seat, perspiration gathering at his hairline. “With a gun pointed in the window?”
Levine backed off and let him finish his recount of the crash.
Wheeler ended by repeating how he understood the appreciation for confidentiality inside the company. “I assumed it would be best if I reported this to you and kept it in-house rather than going to the police.”
“Yes, yes, by all means.” Dr. Levine swept his hand over his mouth and shook his head. He appeared to be as disturbed by Dunn’s actions as Wheeler was. “Dunn’s reckless behavior is not acceptable. We can’t have someone making such bad judgments. I can assure you he will be dealt with. You’ve done the right thing coming to see me. We definitely need to handle this ourselves. The press would have a grand time with it if they got wind. And they would, you know. They’ve got their noses up the ass of everybody’s business, especially a well-respected entity like Reichert Pharmaceuticals. We’ve been in the news enough—everybody speculating about our ventures and financial status.”
Levine swiveled in his chair and angled to the side as if ready to stand. “But I’ll tell you what, Dr. Wheeler, you should take this to the top. I’ll get in touch with Reichert and brief him. Then I’ll get back to you.”