Short Story: Masquerade

February 23, 2016January 6, 2018 ~ S.M. Nolan ~ Leave a comment

His head was clear through the digital sights of her scope as she stalked him from the shadows of a fifth floor balcony outside an empty apartment. The building straight ahead was the usual conglomerate of department stores for the first three levels, the fourth jam-packed full of offices. The fifth story contained the high-class and fine cuisine the wealthy elite were so accustomed to. She knew he would find him here sooner or later, in this seat; it was his favorite place and seat, and this was his favorite time of day.

Overhead, lighting cracked in clouds that unleashed the torrential downpour between the two buildings. Somewhere below, cars splayed streaks of light across wet asphalt while people scurried like ants through the rain. She cared nothing for them or their existence. Her mind and gaze were fixed, her posture rigid. Her rifle’s bi-pod sat studiously atop the cement edge of the balcony wall, it and her beneath a specially-made poncho that masked her heat signature from any surrounding surveillance. In moments, she would make the hit, he would be dead.

The why didn’t matter to her. It was her job to kill, not to care. She did, however, know the man’s steel-gray hair and chiseled features from newscasts. He was Leo “The Lion” Wilco, CEO of the fortune five-hundred company Wilco Industries. The company was deeply embedded into every major manufacturing industry through either its own holdings or those of its subsidiaries. With proper motivation, Wilco was perfectly positioned to make a swift move, gain market share and monopolize all of those industries. Evidently someone believed it was about to.

Another crack of lightning. With it she racked the bolt on her rifle, placed her finger beside the trigger. All she needed was another strike. The thunder that followed would hide any remnant of sound that her rifle’s flash-sound suppressor left for prying ears. Through the scope she watched the minor shift of the wind indicator along its edge, inched the rifle back into alignment. The cross-hairs flashed red, a kill-shot centered on the left-side The Lion’s head.

He sat with his hands on the edge of the table, fingers-interlocked to await the arrival of his meal. His back was rigid, un-moving, but his jaw and face made the subtle hints of a low conversation. His mistress of the month curled a hand around her wine glass and sipped with a forward lean. She was clearly a trophy, arm-candy; all legs and tits that crossed and bulged beneath her crimson dress. She gleamed with millions of dollars worth of diamonds that decorated her ears, neck, and fingers.

The woman’s obvious vanity made the assassin sick, for a moment she thought of turning her rifle on the trophy. But it wasn’t her job. Eliminating gold-diggers and trophies was a job for street-thugs and heart-disease. That, and it never paid nearly well enough. No, her job was simple, fruitful; one breath, one round, one life. A hundred G’s was all it took to end the insanity Wilco was positioned to bring.

Unbeknownst to his assassin, The Lion’s head was sought for what was known but that he believed to be unknown. Wilco’s closest friend and associate, Robert Kiely, with him since the start of Wilco Industries and largely responsible for its success, had recently discovered that business had a way of separating those believed closest to one’s self. This information came in the form of a mysterious package Kiely had found on his doorstep in the middle of the night.

The forty-eight year old millionaire of modest home, was drawn from his bed in the wee hours of the morning by a ringing doorbell. Like any cautious homeowner, he answered the door with a 12-gauge shotgun in his hands, ready to bring hell to any would-be intruder. Instead, he found a small, brown-box with his name on it and nothing more. Kiely laid his shotgun on the island counter in his kitchen, tore open the box to find a lone SSD flash-drive. It took mere moments for Kiely to boot his laptop and sift through the contents.

Both video and text files alluded to a massive, off-the-books deal that would end with Wilco holding a monopoly over three separate industries; construction equipment manufacturing and sale, Northwestern US Logging, and West-coast Realty development. In essence, Wilco was ready to purchase, develop, and monopolize the entire West-coast of America. The how and why bothered Kiely much less than the final two snippets of information he found; information, that in time, would lead him to hire Wilco’s assassin.

The first snippet was a money trail to various contract lawyers. There was little to go on, but it was clear Wilco intended to cut Kiely out of the deal, and likely, out of Wilco Industries entirely. The next was a simple text file that offered a solution without explanation. The small notepad file enlarged onto his screen, readout; “We have a mutual problem. Bring $100,000 US to the address below. Tomorrow. Midnight.”

The address was somewhere in NorCal; a nondescript storage facility made of small, garage-like units. The moon overhead made a shadow of Kiely as he followed instructions that led him to the last unit in the back, right corner of the storage compound. It was open, dark, but from the way the shadows seemed to breathe outside the unit, clearly occupied by a man.

He lit a cigarette, his face showing only enough to hint at angry, European features despite his obvious, American accent, “Toss the money inside, and leave. The problem will be handled.”

And so here she knelt, in freezing rain, ready to correct the problem. It was her job. She was an assassin for the highest bidder. She did her job well, had eliminated more targets than most in her line of work. Partly, it was her handler that allowed her to get her work, and partly it was the fact that no-one suspected a small, ex-gymnast girl with a dyke spike and no tits could ever be a threat.

She smiled at the thought. Lightning cracked. Her finger laid over the trigger. Her breath stopped. The world around her was silent. For a moment, the thunder seemed not to come. She knew it would, even through a calm dispassion.

Then, the low rumble. The trigger was squeezed. A crack and the thunder apexed. The rifle recoiled with a thump and near-invisible flash from its barrel. It was hidden from view before Wilco’s brain finished splattering out the far-side of his head. The trophy’s screams signaled the successful hit as the rifle broke down into its few pieces, was deposited into the small backpack she kept it in. She slipped back inside the empty apartment in time for a group to gather around Wilco’s corpse.

Someone examined the tempered glass to locate the single, small hole while she made her way down in the elevator. It stopped at a random floor, her masquerade solid as a man entered and paid her no mind. Somewhere in her pack, the rifle was still warm with fresh powder, but no-one could ever know.

When the elevator opened in the lobby, police cruisers screamed past. She and the man from the elevator exited the building together.

He stopped to watch the cruisers fly past and around the corner, pulled on a set of gloves, and mused aloud, “Must’ve been an accident.”

She didn’t smirk, or smile, or anything else that would indicate inside knowledge. Instead, she was indifferent, stone-faced, “Guess so.”

She and the acquaintance parted ways. Off on their separate paths to their seemingly ordinary lives. Her job was done and it was time to collect payment. Lighting cracked overhead to blind anyone watching, but by the time their vision would have returned, she had disappeared into the rain-storm, and back into obscurity.

Rehab: Part 6

February 19, 2016February 18, 2016 ~ S.M. Nolan ~ Leave a comment

As the penitentiary drew nearer, the high brick walls and guard towers became visible in the distance. They towered forty-feet high within the walls and fences that separated the road from the main, brick building. It was a wholly depressing sight, unkempt and dry with weathered brick barely visible over rusty razor-wire that topped the walls. The windows were visibly reinforced with thick steel bars, the patrolling guards miniatures atop the towers with scoped rifles. The usual, circular, deer crossing signs turned to hard-angled rectangles with the ominous warning; “HITCHHIKERS MAY BE ESCAPED INMATES.” The signs appeared miles before the prison, became a mainstay every few hundred yards.

Sherry steered left onto a dusty, dirt road. Ahead, the rehab center was tucked away behind thick foliage that buffered its grounds. It was hardly the picturesque image of the last; the building dilapidated, abandoned years ago. A car pulled from its gravel lot, passed them as they maneuvered into the lot with a crunch beneath the truck’s heavy tires.

The interior and receptionist were a perfect match to the center’s aged and worn grounds. Carol had only just begun to wonder at its state when Sherry started her spiel. The receptionist breathed an exhausted sigh, and began to type. Carol winced with pity; the poor woman had clearly been forced here, shaved down to a pathetic caricature from years of living with looming dread. Her sallow face was pale, her eyes dark, purple from years of emotional baggage and strife.

When the database search came back empty, they left without delay. They were as ready to be rid of the building as the woman would have liked to be. A desperate aura of depression permeated the air, stank with the demoralized scent of a place and people intentionally left in shambles. The place had been forgotten, abandoned by the higher-ups in the state. The patients were likely all recovering addicts, recidivists one a dose away from relapse or vagrancy. As close to the prison as it was, its funding was probably slashed, diverted for other ventures there.

Carol considered the world around her, wondered if the picture formed in her head from Evans’ possible identity change was really a growing pandemic. It clawed at her mind while she returned to the truck, shrugged off a remark from Sherry about the center’s shabbiness: They needed to stay focused, and it was no secret some things were bad, the two were simply forced to examine them through a microscope in the midst of their search. The very necessity of the search should have prepared them for anything, especially heart-wrenching reality.

The truck returned to the main-road, headed away from the prison to a distant, highway entrance, then North toward the final rehab center. It was an hour of tense silence, both of them too uncomfortable to speak. The silence was infected with a knowing thought between them. They were both certain of the damage that might be done to their reputations no matter what way things panned out. Moreover, if Chuck or Ed got wind of it their crusade, they’d likely lose their jobs, livelihoods, and any chances for new work. There was very little to be found in the private sector these days, especially for young attorneys with black marks against them. With such risks on their minds, the stress that infected the truck’s cab could only grow.

The truck cruised on through empty fields for near an hour before the scenery began to shift to pastured, grazing land. The still-dry and dead brown of early spring was infected with spores of green grass and freshly budded trees. The change of hues helped to keep their wits intact. Further north, then eastward, the farms trickled away. The land became spackled here and there with massive, mansion-homes. A dramatic shift in the landscape left them uneasy; it had happened too fast, and lasted too long, as if they were traversing through an immense golf course.

Carol looked around suspiciously, “We must be getting close.”

Sherry agreed, “Yeah. Don’t know about you, but this screams rich asshole to me.”

Carol squinted at a hill in the distance, pointed to it, “There. That’s gotta’ be it.”

The hill was roughly a hundred feet higher than the rest of the outlying areas. Atop it sat the center, as big as a hospital and with a Victorian-era architecture. Massive white columns rose at its entrance, blended with the expansive grounds of costly landscaping like a southern plantation. Even in the early spring, the place was unnaturally well-groomed.

Carol looked to Sherry, who shook her head in disgust, “More proof that enough money can get you anything.” Her next words repulsed her, “Even a god damned hospital.”

They merged right, onto freshly tarred asphalt that led up the hill to the entrance, curved back down to meet the main road again. The truck crept along it, sandwiched to the door by tall, freshly cut hedges strangely green against the dreary sky. The truck came to a stop outside the door, Sherry’s hands autonomous as she put it in gear, climbed out. Carol followed with a subtle unbutton of the holster at her side. She met Sherry at the steps, paused to survey the hospital-sized building in its entirety. The stone steps led upward between the large, Victorian columns, leveled off at a heavy wooden door.

Carol glanced at Sherry, “If he’s anywhere, my guess is here.”

“I can only imagine the ego-stroking that goes on in here– probably how Evans made it out.”

“How’d he leave’s the question,” Carol replied.

Sherry breathed to steady her nerves, “And with a new face at that.”

Carol started up the steps, “What the hell’s the point to putting these guys away if they can just get out again?”
Sherry shrugged, followed Carol to the door and inside. A cool breeze followed them onto marble floors of a lobby. The heavy door shut with a loud echo of metal and wood like a castle’s entryway. A long desk was enclosed in tempered glass ahead, a blonde, middle-aged receptionist there wiling away her time at a keyboard with fake-tipped nails.

Her eyes rose, caked with make-up and surprised by their appearance, “Uh, hello. Can I help you?”

“We’d like to speak with whoever’s in charge,” Sherry said expertly. “We’re looking into a former client’s whereabouts, and were told the man in charge could answer some questions.”

She perked up, “Oh! You’re looking for Dr. Babcock. I’ll send for him.”

Sherry gave a crooked smile to Carol, led her to a bench across the room, and shielded her words in a lean, “I don’t know how long this ruse will last. Decide what you wanna know now.”

A door on the right side of the lobby opened on a man in his late-fifties with a comb-over and a lab coat. He had a dozen or so pens in a pocket protector at his left breast that set off the thick, black glasses over his eyes. They stood as he entered, stepped over to introduce themselves.

“So what can I do for you miss Hunter?” He asked with a plastic smile.

“Perhaps we could speak somewhere more private?” She responded.

The doctor’s face drew delight, “Of course. This way please.”

He beckoned them to the door he’d entered from, unlocked it with a golden key. He held it open, followed them in as it swung closed, latched with an electronic lock. The hallway beyond was excessively grand; highly polished granite floors were offset by gold fixtures and bright, red-oak paneled walls. Babcock made for the third door at the left, unlocked it with another key to usher them in. The door shut, locked behind them. The office matched the hallway with a large, mahogany desk that stole one third of its center between three chairs.

Babcock offered them a seat, took his behind the desk as he produced a cigarette, held it like a Frenchmen to puff deep. He exhaled, tamped ash into a tray, “Now, what can I do for you ladies?”

Carol looked to Sherry, steeled her courage and cleared her throat, “We’re here to inquire about a former patient. It seems he may not have fulfilled his full rehabilitation sentence.”

The Doctor’s brow formed scrutiny, “Miss Switzer, I assure you every one of my patients that enters our program here completes their full terms without exception. More to the point, I’m afraid I can’t relay any specific information as it violates our Medical non-disclosure agreements.”

Sherry interjected, “Unless the NDA’s interfere with the new Investigative Act. Then, the law takes precedent.”

“Are you policemen?” Babcock asked curiously.

“Do we need to be?” Carol asked, mildly irritated.

“Ah, so you aren’t then.”

Sherry countered, “No Doctor Babcock, we’re not. But we are from Mordin and Henderson, attorneys at law, here to ensure a patient and convicted criminal is still serving his sentence.”

Babcock grumbled, annoyed, “Lawyers.” He took a breath, stiffened one half of his face up, “Well ladies, I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to present a warrant or leave until you return with one. Do you have a warrant?”

“We don’t need one,” Sherry assured him.

“As I thought,” He rose from his desk. “I’m afraid you’ll have to–”

“Doctor Babcock, I’m afraid you’re not understanding me,” Sherry said firmly as she rose, silenced him. “The nature of your work here may be of questionable ethics. We know something has happened to one of your patients, and that he is no longer serving his rehabilitation term. He has returned to society against court orders and I’m certain you know that makes you liable.”

Babcock’s face sank. Carol snarled, rose beside Sherry, “You’ve been caught. If you don’t comply, you’ll be charged with aiding and abetting a known felon and obstruction of justice. And I can personally assure you, you’ll see the full extent of the law in these matters.”

Babcock was silent for a moment, then swallowed hard. He matched eyes with Carol, a minor arrogance on his tongue, “Let me see if I understand you right; You barge in here, demand I illegally release personal information, then threaten me when I don’t?”

Sherry snapped back, “Under the new privacy act, you are obligated to remit any and all information on the patient in question– a convicted criminal, or else risk a twenty year sentence for the aforementioned charges.”

Babcock sighed, his shoulder’s slumped, “What is the patient’s name?”

Sherry was stunned at the lightning reversal. Carol wasn’t, instead on edge from his evasiveness, “Zachary Evans.”

His eyebrow rose knowingly, “Evans huh? Yeah, I remember the man. Movie producer with an itch for teenage girls.” Carol’s eye twitched, her stomach rolled. He stepped around the desk, “Very well, come with me.”

They followed him from the office, cautious but curious. He led them back to the lobby, across it to a door on the opposite side. He unlocked it as he explained, “You must see what we do here before you can understand what is that has happened. I would ask that you reserve judgment until afterward.”

He led them into a room with billiard and foosball tables. Computers and video game consoles lined walls among bookcases of DVDs, BluRays, and VHS tapes. Large screen televisions hung at shoulder height all around the room across from chairs, tables, and sofas. A few men and women partook in the various activities there, completely indifferent to the trio’s appearance. Each of them were clad in white, pajama-like clothing, and murmered quietly to one another as if in a library.

Babcock led the through the room as he spoke, “This is our recreation room, where our patients can enjoy any down time they might have between treatments and therapy sessions. At this facility we believe in equal parts cohabitation, treatment, and relaxation. We feel it is best to keep them integrated in a society while they recover in order to simulate the natural order of society.”

He led them into another hallway, passed a few rooms filled with groups of people in circles of chairs. Babcock directed their attention right, to a courtyard in the building’s center visible through floor to ceiling windows. French doors could be discerned around the courtyard, no doubt barred by the same electronic locks as the others.

He explained, “These are our group therapy rooms. The courtyard is mainly for relaxation or smoking. It’s important that our patients feel comfortable enough to relax during and after their treatments, as their stories tend to stir their emotions. In order to properly heal their various mental disorders, we require that they remain as complacent and content as possible given the circumstances.”

Carol sneered at the thought; if any of these people were like Evans, none of them deserved serenity or peace, they deserved death. Beside her, Sherry sensed an omen in the tour, as if the doctor was deliberately putting on an air so they might let their guard down. It wasn’t working. Sherry rubbernecked her way around, alert for an ambush. Carol kept her arms down, ready to draw her hidden pistol if Babcock breathed wrong.

They rounded a corner to the right, entered a narrower hallway with rooms every few feet. They made their way through, past patient rooms. Carol’s paranoia began to seep in; if the Babcock knew he’d been discovered, why the tour? What was he trying to prove? How could this possibly help him? Did he really believe this would keep him from the repercussions of letting an inmate go?

Something was wrong.

They made a right into another hallway. To their left was a large room that looked down on circular glass. “This is our medical wing. As you may have noticed, we are rather isolated so we require a fully-staffed medical team. This is the observation area for any emergency surgeries that may have to take place.”

Something sprinted through Carol’s mind, an epiphany that readied to blossom. It couldn’t yet, as though barred by the eerie tour yet to end. The thought lingered on the verge of realization, tickled her senses as they continued.

“These are our doctor’s offices, equipped much like an ICU though rarely used as such. It may also be used as a recovery room for any surgical patients.”

Recovery? Recovery from what? Why would anyone in a rehab center require surgery or recovery, let alone one so lush? Was there fighting like in prisons? No that couldn’t be it, there was no reason for it. These were society’s “elite,” the aristocracy. They prided themselves on sophistication, not barbarianism.

“And this is our rehabilitative therapy room,” Babcock said as he stopped at an open door.

It was bare save a metal table in its center. Atop it was a strange machine with a component to fit a human head. It looked like an optometrist’s ocular x-ray machine might, with viewfinders in the head component. Carol stared at the machine as Babcok droned on and the epiphany began to bubble, froth. It readied to spill from the depths of her mind with sweat that beaded on her forehead and temples.

Babock spoke formally, “This machine helps us identify which areas of the brain cause the patients’ addictions, neuroses, or negative behaviors, and allows us to focus chemical treatments on those affected areas.”

Carol’s head began to spin. It dizzied her, upturned her stomach. She swayed, fell forward, clutched at what she could. She slipped to her knees as something gave way beneath a palm. The episode honed into vertigo as her hand hand rose to meet her eyes, Babcock’s badge in it with black, printed letters that read, “Dr. Henry Babcock, M.D, Plastic Surgeon.”

Time ground to a crawl. She stared at the name as a fire ignited within her, and the epiphany spilled out. As if in slow motion, she saw Babcock kneel before her, felt Sherry’s hand on her shoulder. A penlight lifted from his breast pocket, clicked on. It rose. The images of DePaul and Evans played through her mind again, superimposed upon one another, then over the badge until only the words “Plastic Surgeon” were visible.

It hit her like a freight train; whatever Evans had done to become DePaul, Babcock knew about it. He’d helped him to change his appearance, created DePaul from Evans’ face. The words burned in her mind as her chin was lifted for the penlight. Her gaze swayed, forced sideways from a hand onto the device ahead. As the penlight’s beam entered from the right of her vision. Time resumed its normal speed. She lunged, tackled the doctor. He stumbled, smacked his head on the metal table.

Sherry rushed in, “Carrie! What the hell?”

Carol didn’t listen. The three were now alone in the room, isolated. She bounded backward, locked the door. Babcock lay on the floor, dazed. She pounced atop him, knee in his chest, and smacked his face to bring him ’round.

“What’d you do to him? Where is he!” She screamed with a grip on his lapels.

“Carrie, what the hell’re–”

“He knows Sherry!” She shouted with a sidelong snap. She refocused on Babcock, her face beet-red and knuckles white, “I know you know! What happened to Evans? I know you did it. You’re a plastic surgeon– the only one that could’ve changed his appearance. Tell me! How could you let that monster back into the world!”

Babcock denied it with weak breaths, “Stupid… bitch, you have no idea… what you’re talking about. And you’ll never getting out of here–”

Carol’s pistol slipped form her side, pressed against his temple. Sherry was frozen as Carol shouted with sideways jabs, “I should pull the trigger right now! I should avenge those girls myself– everyone who’s suffered from the ones you’ve let go! You fucking monster!” Babcock shuddered from the cold steel, silent, terrified. Carol screamed, “Tell me what you did!”

Petrified, horrified, and disgusted all at once, Sherry took in the scene took in the scene. Carol seemed crazed, but she made sense. His guilt was obvious, but the bastard had a gun against his head and still refused to admit it.

“What’s it do Babcock?” She motioned to the machine with her head, “What’s it really do!” He glanced between Carol and Sherry. The gun jabbed his temple again, “Tell me!”

He struggled to speak against Carol’s weight, “It’s…It’s a memory device.”

“What kind of memory device Babcock?” She barked.

“I-I can’t…”

“Tell me, now!”

“Carrie, he can’t breathe. Ease off.” Carol’s eyes were throwing knives that aimed for Sherry. She barked logic at her, “He’s not going anywhere, but security’ll be here soon.”

Carol stood, the gun leveled on Babcock’s forehead. He sat up, gasped and coughed for air, “You… You don’t understand. These aren’t… the same people anymore.”

“What the hell’re you talking about?” She barked, her arms locked outward, grip firm.

“Wh-when they come here, we’re given directives. If some of them are… especially valuable, we rehabilitate them, return them to society.”

Sherry’s eyes were wild, “What the hell d’you mean valuablet?”

“I just do as I’m told. S-Some of these people… they’re considered valuable by certain… interested parties.Their the smartest, the brightest– the ones most inclined to harbor extraordinary qualities. Evans was one of them. Evans was one.”

“What the hell are you babbling about?” Carol barked with a thrust of the gun.

The pistol followed him up as he inched back to his feet, “The device… it erases a subject’s mind– implants a new personality, new memories. It makes them a different person! It brings out the… extraordinary qualities in them.” Carol’s arms slacked a little as she listened, dumbfounded. Babcock explained, braced himself against the table to breathe, “Evans… had a unique genetic configuration. It… made his mind excessively mathematical, organized. It was this quality that made him so successful. It’s why he became DePaul.” He swallowed the last of his pants, regained his breath. He became enamored with his own work, passionate even, “It was anticipated Evans would be successful at anything mathematical. We were right. Anthony DePaul is a natural mathematician. He uses that skill to run and grow a business that contributes to the economy, to Humanity. ”

Sherry was once more speechless, but Carol’s arms re-locked, “Who’s doing this?” He shook his head, “I don’t know.” Carol thrust the gun forward. He stamped a foot, “I don’t know damn it! All I know’s that they send us packages for each new patient– evaluations that tell us what to implant, files to do it, via a courier. I suspect they make money off it somehow, but I don’t know how. I don’t really care. I just do what they tell me to!”

Carol sneered with a flare of her nostrils, lowered the gun, “It needs to stop.”

He swallowed hard, shook his head, “You don’t understand. It can’t be stopped. Ours is only one of hundreds of facilities across the world. In most cases the subjects are the most heinous criminals– but they go on to do good. You can’t just stop that. You shouldn’t. It’s… unethical.”

Carol fumed, “Don’t you lecture me on ethics you sonuvabitch!”

Sherry was calmer, but confused, “Do they know?”

“What?” Babcock asked.

Carol shot her a look, she reiterated, “Do they know what’s happened to them?”

Babcock hesitated, then shook his head slowly, “No, their whole lives are implanted through the machine, parts are backed up by falsified files, documents. When Anthony DePaul was born in this room, Zachary Evans died. Evans was a pompous, arrogant, child molesting prick.” Babcock snarled at the thought, then inexplicably softened, “ But Anthony DePaul… he’s a kind-hearted man, donates millions to various charities, and helps to make the world a better place. They’re two entirely different people. It’s part of the reason for the reconstructive surgery; we make their fiercer features more gentle.”

“So… they don’t know what’s going to happen to them, then?” Sherry asked.

“Should they?” He asked earnestly. They eyed him. He countered, confounded, “They’re terrible criminals– a festering sore on Humanity and society. Why would it matter? Why should they know? Did their victim’s know what was about to happen to them?”

There was a long silence. Neither of the women seemed willing to admit Babcock’s point. In truth, they both knew it, agreed in part.

Babcock sensed this, “We’re on the same side. My methods merely differ, and in some cases, are the next link in the chain after yours.”

Carol sighed, lowered the gun. She was lost. She could walk away now, be done with it. Evans was gone from the world, her job was finished, but something more kept her in place. She flipped the safety back on the pistol, slipped it into the holster.

She watched Babcock visibly relax, “Can they revert? Become who they were again?”

“Never. It’s impossible. Everything of who and what they were is erased, rewritten.”

Sherry tasted bile from the thought, “It’s still not right.”

“Right and wrong is white and black, Miss Hunter,” Babcock replied. “Morality… reality, is gray. And there are many shades of it.”

Carol sighed, shook her head, her eyes on the floor, “He’s right. There’s nothing we can do about this… not this. But I still can’t let DePaul go without knowing who– and what– he is.”

Babcock eyed her as fists began to pound on the door. The security team had arrived.

“Wave them off,” she instructed. “Wave them off, and you stay anonymous. Your name never comes up when this blows open.”

He eyed her for deception, found none. He stepped to the door with a nod, opened it as he rubbed the back of his head, “It’s alright boys, really. A few missteps, and one conked noggin, but everything’s fine.”

One of the men at the forefront of the group eyed Carol, “You sure you’re okay, Doc?”

“Yes, yes, everything’s fine here,” he said dismissively.

He waved off the confused security team, ushered the women out. The group turned for the main lobby, as Carol steered the doctor after them. The team exited the lobby ahead. Sherry stopped at a door marked, “Archives” between Babcock’s office and the lobby-door. She opened it, let Carol and Babcock pass through first. The door shut. Babcock turned to Carol.

She motioned to a computer between two sets of file cabinets, “I want copies of every patient record you have– and I want them now.”

The doctor sighed, moved to the computer. He produced a USB stick from a box beside it, jammed it into a port, and began a file-transfer, “I don’t know what you’re expecting, Miss Switzer.”

“You don’t need to,” Carol countered. “All you need to know’s that you’re off the hook.”

The transfer prompt morphed into a progress bar that galloped forward. Babcock watched it, “I assume you intend to inform each of theses patients of their status. I have to ask though; what good will that do?”

She wasn’t sure yet; “Just give me what I want, and keep doing what you do. You do serve a purpose. So do what you do, but with one, minor adjustment– for your own sake.” He handed over the USB drive. She slipped it into her pocket, met his eyes, “You tell them first. Tell them what the price is. That it’s their penance. Tell them. Watch their horror and realization emerge. Then be their executioner. Switch on your machine and be done with it. They deserve to know, and you deserve the curse.”

“How do you know I’ll comply?”

“Because we both know it’s the right thing to do. And regardless of your actions, I know you believe in doing what’s right.”

Babcock was silent, thoughtful for a moment, then “What will you do?”

“I’m going to keep an eye on your patients, and ensure they never revert.”

Sherry caught Carol’s steely determination, for moment thought she’d lost her mind. Then, she turned away, left Babcock to consider all that had occurred. She followed Carol out to the lobby, climbed into the truck, and began the long drive home. It was silent, Sherry still in shock. There was a lot to be done, and very few alternatives. Carol figured she’d be hunted by Babcock’s handlers, but with Buddy at home and her pistol nearby, she feared nothing.

As they pulled up to Carol’s house in the darkness, Sherry shut the truck off, looked sideways, “What’s our next move?” Carol eyed her curiously. Sherry was determined, “I’ve already said it; I’m here, so what’s our next move?”

Carol considered it for a moment, then sighed, “A drink.”

They headed inside to tend to Buddy. Beneath the stars on the back porch, the consumed copious amounts of liquor to keep their minds from the day. A few hours of drunken banter saw them pass out in the living room. Carol was kicked back in her recliner, Buddy’s over-sized body in her lap. Sherry slumped over on the couch, and like Carol, slept the sleep of the righteous.

Short Story: Desert Man

February 16, 2016January 6, 2018 ~ S.M. Nolan ~ Leave a comment

How he survived no-one was sure. They only knew that he emerged onto a stretch of I-40 just south of the Mojave National Preserve. He was a ratty, shell of a man, emaciated and parched to bleeding from an indeterminate amount of time in the sun without water. One of Nevada’s National Park Rangers had found him wandering the highway a few miles from his shack. Richard Powell, the Ranger, found the John Doe just before dawn.

“There’s obvious signs of dehydration,” Powell explained to a doctor over the phone.

The John Doe sat in the tiny, air-conditioned Ranger’s shack across the room from Powell. His eyes were focused straight ahead, his shoulders and back slumped in a hunch atop the leather couch. He wore a suit, clearly tattered from his tenure in the Mojave. He’d yet to say a word, and a small trickle of blood still leaked from the cracked skin in the center of his bottom-lip. Every few moments, almost mechanically, he would lift the chilly, tin cup in his hand to soothe his sandy throat with cold water. As if autonomous, only his arm, mouth and throat moved. His eyes stayed focused ahead. His body never flinched but for the occasional shallow breath.

Powell hung up the phone, lifted his wooden chair from behind the desk, then set it down before Doe on the dusty rug in the center of the room. He sat slowly, considering his words with care and taking a long, droll look at his charge. He shook his head with confusion.

“I dunno’ how you done it, son,” Powell said. “But you clearly got your feathers ruffled over sumthin’ and I’m not sure how to go ’bout fixin’ that.”

The Doe’s eyes shifted to stare into Powell’s, but he remained silent. His eerie stillness was only normalized in the few, human movements that comprised his drinking. Either oblivious, or altogether too concerned to address it, Powell steered the conversation with glances here and there that gave more humanity to his charge than he may have possessed.

“Now I called the Doc, ‘n he’ll be here soon, but ’til then I’mma need you to tell me whatever you can remember, alright?”

Doe looked straight through Powell, a gaze that froze the desert-man’s blood. It wasn’t an easy thing to do– like most desert people, Powell was used to the two extremes of the desert; the smothering heat and the unbearable cold. Doe’s piercing look though? Even antifreeze couldn’t have kept his blood flowing. There was something alien about him, inhuman– like he’d come from another planet and could see everything inside, outside, and through a man just by looking in his eyes.

Powell’s discomfort began to rise, but he powered through it for the sake of his charge, “Look, I understand you’re prolly not in the talkin’ mood. I ‘magine your throat’s mighty soar, but you gotta’ tell me what happened to you, else I’m not gonna’ know what to tell the Doc.”

Still Doe sat there, eyes fixed ahead, mechanically drinking. Powell scratched his five-o’clock shadow with a grating of stubble on nails. He pushed himself up from the chair with both hands on his thighs, began to step away when Doe’s mouth opened with a rasp. Powell stopped in his tracks, looked at the man in anticipation.

Doe’s mouth was slacked like he’d stopped mid-speech, a word still ready to roll from his tongue, but all of his movements had ceased. Even his breath seemed to stop, likely to help muster this bizarre state of being. Suddenly the hand that held the water dropped its cup, seized Powell’s wrist.

There was a flash like a mortar’s exploded, but Powell was unharmed. He recoiled from a blinding light, suddenly found himself standing beside the man in the middle of the desert. It was near dusk, the sun swollen on the horizon as though the Earth ended somewhere in its direction and it began there. For a moment Powell swore he saw the dividing line where Sol and Earth were separate entities. He shook off the thoughts in favor of a rubbernecking back-step that included a full-circle of his feet.

He came to a rest on the face of Doe. It stared at him, more animate and human than he’d seen it yet. Powell was awestruck, ready to accuse the man of sorcery, but he raised a hand slowly to halt him from speaking. For some reason, it worked. A trickle of complacency coursed through the Park Ranger all the way from his chest to his brain. Something flooded his body from its presence, and he felt content.

For the first time, Doe spoke; his voice was old, hoarse, as though it came from a man hundreds of years older than the vessel that possessed it. “I… do not know my name. It has been… far too long since I began my journey.”

Powell’s breath weighed on his chest, “Wh-what’s going on ‘ere?” He whipped his head left to right, “We’re… Where are we? Where’s the shack? What’ve you–”

Doe’s hand went up again, and Powell felt endorphins leak from his brain, “You… don’t worry. I… won’t harm you. Something… wonderful. I wish to show you.”

He presented his hand to Powell, as if to take it to be led somewhere. Indeed, once more compelled by the curious force, Powell took Doe’s hand. The land around them began to morph, by the looks of it, to a late-prohibition era town. The distant sunset disappeared to form brick and mortar buildings. Trees and freshly-paved street intermingled with the fanciful colors of painted homes in the distance. Long, hand-molded steel fenders and chrome bumpers appeared on exquisitely manufactured Fords and Chevys along the streets’ edges.

Doe’s voice sounded over the change in scenery, “It began here, when I was a young man. Though my appearance does not reflect it…. I have been here a long time. On this Earth.”

Powell glanced around to see a couple step from a nearby speakeasy. The woman was clad in a fur stole. Enormous diamonds glittered around her neck above a flashy, red dress. Beside her, Doe was unmistakable, truly unchanged since the era. Powell watched as Doe maneuvered to the vehicle to open the door for his mistress, his gray fedora and suit freshly-pressed. The angle of his head, and the loud laughter of the woman covered the sound of a slowly approaching vehicle.

Doe opened the door, and the car’s engine revved up. It skidded to a halt just as two men popped out the passenger windows. A hail of Thompson machine-gun fire exploded through the night. The sounds were so loud and near that Powell jumped in fright. One of the men yelled something about Timmy the Fish “sending his regards” as Doe and his mistress were gunned down.

The scene suddenly changed to Doe once more in the desert. This time, he wandered through the Mojave alone. As if Powell followed him with each breath, he kept pace with Doe’s past-self in real-time.

The man’s now-disembodied voice spoke to him over his aimless wandering, “I’m not sure how I survived…. alas, I did.” The walking Doe fell to his knees, exhausted and panting while the elder one continued to speak, “I had been shot four dozen times by Timmy the Fish’s wise-guys. They murdered my beautiful Mary, but I survived… I didn’t even bother going to the hospital. I … I think that was why I wandered out into the desert. I wanted to know if I could die.” He seemed partially amused by his next thoughts, “I left because there was nothing left to stay for. My Mary was gone, and Timmy didn’t trust me anymore. If he’d known I was alive, he’d’ve tried again. If I didn’t die then, he’d’ve just exchanged my shoes for cement ones and I’d be stuck at the bottom of the ocean– maybe for eternity.”

The images morphed back to Doe standing before Powell. The sun sat once more on the horizon. Doe was now animated in response to Powell’s insane look of scrutiny. The former managed a weak smile, his eyes tired and glassy with tears and cataracts from the desert sun.

“I’ve not aged a day in almost a hundred years,” he said with a heavy heart. “And I think on the day my Mary died, I did too… or a part of me did.” He heaved a dreadful sigh infected with grief, “Problem is, the rest’a me’s never quite gone with it.” He took a step toward Powell with the sadness of a man long-past his expiration date, “I started walking the day she died. First, to escape the police, then Timmy. Then, ’cause I didn’t know what else to do. I hadn’t stopped… not really anyhow, ’til you picked me today. Somehow, I’d managed to wander for ages, never dying, never stopping. I like to think that… now, I’m more desert than man. Like a dune in the wind that’s just carried between locations, but never really leaves the desert.”

Doe went quiet. Powell was flabbergasted. He wanted to call the man a crook, a liar, but he couldn’t. He had a peculiar effect on the Park Ranger, reminded him of something from home. It was as though he was part of the desert, somehow had managed to embody it in all those years he’d supposedly wandered it. Being a desert-man himself, the Park Ranger felt at home, couldn’t help but be placate the bit of that Doe embodied.

He shook his head again, focused on the task at-hand, “I dunno’ what’s goin’ on here, but I’d appreciate it if we could return to the shack now. Otherwise, we’re gonna’ miss the Doc.”

Doe gave a few, solitary nods– they were small, presided over by a sad smile. In a blink, the Ranger’s shack re-materialized around them. Powell found himself standing just as he’d been, ready to return to his desk. Doe’s arm retracted back to his body.

He cleared his throat with a slosh of water, then rasped out a few words, “I just wanted you to know my story, Sir.” Powell turned to eye the man as he continued, “All those years I been searching for death, but it still ain’t come. I dunno why. After today, I almost glad it didn’t, ’cause now you know my story.” He took a long, slow drink from his water, then smiled with teary eyes, “She sure was somethin’, my Mary, wasn’t she?”

Powell couldn’t help but be affected by Doe’s sorrow, be it from one man to another, or one desert-man to another.

Powell gave a small nod, his voice quiet, “Sure was.”

Doe nodded back, relaxed on the couch and closed his eyes. Powell sighed, stepped for his desk to lift the phone. He gave Doe one last look, and as if he were a dune, a wind kicked up and the man blew away like grains of sand. What was left of his body after the gust dissolved into sand-grains.

Powell lunged for the couch, felt around it. He drew his hand up with a pile of sand that leaked through his fingers. Powell’s eyes were wild, but somehow he knew: the desert-man had returned home.

Rehab: Part 5

February 12, 2016February 11, 2016 ~ S.M. Nolan ~ Leave a comment

Carol met with Sherry in the lobby of a restaurant their office used for confidential meetings. When Sherry entered, she was immediately concerned by Carol’s eyes and posture. Her spine was rigid, stiff, her arms locked in a cross with a distant stare in her eyes.

Sherry put a hand on her forearm, leaned in close, “What’s wrong, hun?”

Carol whispered, her posture steadfast, “Not here.”

She pivoted on her heels, led Sherry back out the front door to a bench outside. They sat down to face the busy road as cars eeked past at a snail’s pace.

Sherry’s concerns bubbled out, “Carrie, what’s this all about? You call me in the middle of the night, tell me you need to see me first thing in the morning and–”

She cut herself short as Carol’s gaze darted suspiciously, ensured no-one nearby watched or listened in. Then, with a deft hand, she pulled two slips of paper from her jacket pocket. Sherry watched her with a critical skepticism as she lined a torn scrap atop to the full sheet.

Sherry examined them, “Looks like the medical records I got you. Why’s this one torn?” She sank into thought a moment longer, still confounded by their meaning, “Carrie, it’s just numbers to me. I don’t–”

“They are medical records, Sherry. The ones you got me. Identical records from two, separate people.”

Sherry shrugged, “So? You got a duplicate page. Sorry, I cant–”

“Sherry, you’re not listening right.” She shook the full page to emphasize, “This is from Zachary Evans. The guy we lost to Rehab last year.” She lifted the scrap, “This one is a shred of Anthony DePaul’s medical records.”

Sherry examined them both from a far, “What’re you saying? That they have similar histories?”

“Not similar Sherry. Exact. Identical!” Carol said with a firm buck of the pages in her hand. Sherry swallowed hard. Carol explained, “Something’s going on, and the only way to find out’s to get to the rehab facility he’s been in. I need to make sure he’s still in there. Otherwise, he’s on the loose with a new face and a new name, and it’s only a matter of time before he does it again.”

Sherry was dumbfounded. Such a simple set of numbers, yet with such an incredible depth given their context. She examined Carol for a moment, vaguely worried she had cracked from the pressure. The more she looked, the more she was certain of Carol’s conviction. There were definite signs of stress on Carol’s tired face, in her rigid spine and white knuckles, but she was still the same woman who’d helped her become a junior partner in the firm. She was Sherry’s closest friend, and there was a kind of pleading in her eyes now; the kind that only a friend could convey.

Sherry stared a moment longer, attempted to find a way out of helping. She wasn’t sure she wanted to be involved in this; it could damage her reputation, put the firm out of business in a scandal. But was it already too late? Moreover, could she bear to leave Carol on her own? No, she couldn’t. The firm or their reputations be damned, Carol didn’t deserve to be thrown under the bus. What was another few feet of muck at this point?

“Alright Carrie, we’ll go see Mike.”

“Oh thank you Sherry! Thank you,” She said near the verge of tears. “I can’t keep doing this alone, living in fear of a phantom like this.”

Sherry gave her a small squeeze and a pat on the back, “It’s okay, hun. You’re not alone. We’ll find out what’s going on, and get you put right.”

Carol gave a relieved exhale, wiped away a single tear that had formed under her eye, and rose with Sherry to follow her from the restaurant.

Fifteen minutes later, the two were on their way to OPD’s third precinct police station to see Mike. Though Carol had never met him, she knew him more intimately than most. Sherry was a modern day conquistador when it came to sex, Mike another notch in her belt. They both knew it. Luckily, he didn’t mind, preferring to remain friends after the initial let-down. Sherry recognized a few of his better qualities then, kept him around. Apart from their wild, bedroom antics, Carol had learned long ago that Mike was interested in helping people, seeing his position as a police officer as one of public service.

They took the few steps up to the double doors, pulled them open to step inside to the small reception area. Directly ahead in a light blue uniform, a busty blonde sat at a desk with a pencil tucked into her ear.

Sherry took point, “Hey Liz, Mike in?”

“Hey! Yeah he’s here, just head on in.”

“Thanks Liz. Don’t forget you still owe me that drink!” Sherry called as she stepped for a narrow corridor of offices to the right.

Liz gave a half-laugh, “Call me then. We’ll set it up!”

Sherry followed the hall to the last office on the left, knocked once at a door with a placard that read: “DET. MICHAEL BOONE.” A voice beckoned them into a spacious office, Mike rising to greet them.

“Hey, what’s up?” Mike asked.

He wasn’t what Carol was expecting; tall, thinly built, with a scruffy face, and dark hair. Sherry introduced them to a shake of hands. He offered them the two chairs in front of his desk as Sherry sat, launched into an explanation.

“I’m sorry to make this such short notice, but we need your help.”

Mike leaned forward over his desk with his hands folded, “This have to do with those files?” She nodded. Mike shook his head, “I knew it would go bad. Nobody starts looking into two wealthy people without something suspicious going on.”

“It might be worse than you think, Mike,” Sherry admitted gravely. “That’s why we need to talk.”

He relaxed back into his seat, “Alright, you tell me what’s going on, I’ll see what I can do. Start at the beginning and tell me everything. I can’t be going out on a half-assed limb.”

Sherry looked to Carol with a nod. She recounted everything from the where it began; the loss of Evans. She went over everything in detail, eventually produced the medical records. Boone had little reason to doubt her instincts, but all the same was disheartened.

He scratched his scruff with a full hand, “I don’t doubt where you’re headed. And if you’ve come this far, it’s clear you haven’t gotta’ clue what else to do, but I just don’t know what more help I can give you. At least not right now.”

Carol was adamant, her determination fixed, “I just need to know where Evans was taken. I’ll go to the rehab facility myself to follow-up, but I need to know where.”

“It wasn’t in the files?”

“No. And it’s unlikely it’ll turn up in any. If someone’s doctored the files, they’ll be all the more inclined to hide it.”

He inhaled, straightened in his seat with a nod, “Right. Well, that doesn’t make it easier but I do have an idea of where to start. It may take a day or so, but I’ll pull a list of all the rehab centers in a reasonable distance, fax the info to your office A-SAP. Beyond that, I can’t do much until there’s evidence beyond doubt that DePaul is Evans. Then I can submit the evidence to a judge, have an arrest warrant put out.”

Carol gave a relieved smile, “That’s all I need, really. Thank you. I really appreciate this.”

He nodded with a blink, led them to the door and opened it for them, “I’ll get it to you A-SAP.”

They said good-bye, headed back down the hall, passed Liz on their way out. They took the steps toward the street as Sherry spoke, “You’re not going alone.”

“Sher–”

Sherry raised her hand, silenced her, “No! I’m not letting you expose yourself to whoevers hiding behind this. It’s final. I’m going with you.”

Carol breathed, “Okay.”

All through the next morning and afternoon Carol and Sherry exchanged uneasy glances. Any time a new fax came in, one of them would rush the machine only to shake their head. Chuck and Ed came and went a few times to meet with clients or other attorneys, but the bulk of the day was spent in agitated isolation. They awaited a possible end to the dizzying mystery with a bilious tension. Lunch came and went with Chinese take-out that further soured their stomachs, and Carol’s call to Kathy to relay that she wouldn’t be able to make it to their appointment. Though concerned, the latter seemed to accept the excuse of a lengthened work day.

When the fax finally came, Sherry got there first. Just before four PM a single page printed from the fax, blank save for three company names and addresses. There was nothing else.

“He must’ve wanted to keep it simple in case anyone else saw it,” Sherry said, as she handed it over to Carol.

“That’s not very reassuring.”

Carol looked the sheet over; one of the addresses was in Masseville, on the outskirts of Oakton. The next in a rural area to the North, near the state penitentiary, and the last roughly an hour further Northeast.

“How d’you want to do this?” Sherry asked.

Carol thought for a moment, checked the clock on the wall, “We need a full day for this. It’s already too late to start today. We’ll head to Masseville first thing tomorrow, then north, then jump on the highway for the last one.”

“If we don’t get lucky right away anyhow.”

“Somehow I’m doubting that. I have the feeling that anything we’ll find will be as far away from here as possible. But I think we need one more thing before we can do this.”

“Something from Mike?”

She shook her head, “No, an excuse to look at their files. If we don’t find Evans right away, or he’s not where he should be, there’ll be a reason for it; some kind of excuse in files or something. We need to dig up something we can use just in case.”

“We’ll go in under the Investigative Act,” Sherry replied. “The same one we’ve used to get everything else.”

Carol’s brow rose, “We can do that?”

Sherry chuckled, smiled, “Who’s ballsy enough to argue with a pair of lawyers?”

That evening, when Carol returned home, she let Buddy outside and followed him out to stare up at the sky. The pinkish-orange glow of the setting, spring-time sun gave way to an ominous blue-gray that dissolved into the blackness of space further above. Very few stars were visible, but Carol knew they were there; an ever-present, cosmic masterpiece painted billions of years ago, and hidden by man’s hubris. There and then, she decided to one day leave the city someday, take Buddy and head for rural land– even if it was as short a migration as Masseville, the stars would be more visible than now.

She returned to the house with Buddy, climbed the stairs to her bedroom to dig through the closet as she mentally planned for the next morning. Sherry would arrive around eight with her cousin’s truck, her own car in the shop. They would immediately set out for the rehab center in Masseville, only twenty or so minutes from the house. If they found anything, they would go from there. If not, they’d continue until the did. It was going to be a long day.

She removed a heavy, gray safe from the closet, set it in front of the door, and unlocked it with a small, gold key. It lifted open to reveal stacks of papers hid a snap-locked holster and pistol.

She glanced at Buddy, “I’d rather have you with me tomorrow, but this’ll have to do.” He ignored her, too enamored with licking his nethers. She rolled her eyes, “Men.”

It had been years since she’d carried the black, steel pistol. Its very presence whisked her back to a time of terror and fear, before Buddy, before Kathy, or even before she’d mustered the courage to speak up. The pistol was relic, one she’d grown to hate relying on. Before, she’d felt she had no choice, otherwise powerless against being stolen from the darkened streets, thrown into a van to be mercilessly drugged, raped, tortured. The thought of repressed horrors urged bile rose up her throat.

She powered through by pulling the pistol from the holster, aiming it a nearby wall to check the sights. It felt different this time, helped the bile to subside. She was no longer afraid, now left with more options than to cower, whimper. In truth, she’d always had more options, she merely hadn’t seen them at the time.

With his last bits of wisdom, her father had taught her not to let her captor keep his power over her. If she allowed it, he won. Her father was seldom a noble man, merely a laborer for the highest bidder that broke his back to feed his family. Even so, long after his death, his final piece of righteousness ever resonated; “When what you do is right, but goes against everyone else, never give up. Always go down fighting.”

The pistol was no longer a shield– it wasn’t even a weapon– it was now a metaphor come to life. She was more than prepared to go down fighting. Evans, or DePaul if that was his name now, wasn’t going to like her sniffing around. She knew it, suspected Sherry knew it too. If Evans caught her, there would likely be a bloody end. He was guilty of far worse than the charges against him, and she was prepared to act as his executioner if he chose not to come quietly.

Sherry arrived at 8 AM sharp. Carol was ready. She headed out to the massive 4×4, climbed up to the passenger’s seat with a subtle shift of her holstered pistol beneath her jacket. Sherry missed the motion, shifted the truck into gear to drive forward.

It was twenty minutes before they made it across town in the morning traffic, another ten before they hit Masseville’s confusing crisscross of country roads. The rehabilitation center was tucked away in some distant, northern corner of the woods, no doubt hidden from the general public. The public outrage would have been unassailable if they’d been alerted to a nearby minimum security center.

An eventual left turn found them staring them down a old, wooded road. The center ahead to the right was well kept. Expensive landscaping and large hedges covered the front windows. The small, gravel parking lot that wound from the front of the building around its side and back was luxuriously buffered by trees that encircled an obvious, wrought-iron gated courtyard.

Sherry found a space near the front, turned off the engine, “You sure you’re ready for this?”

Carol sensed she had asked more for herself. This was the point of no return, and she needed a last minute reassurance.

“Sherry, you don’t have to do this with me. You’ve already done more than I–”

Sherry cut her off, “This isn’t just about you anymore. It’s about eight lives– eight families– destroyed by a monster that might still walk free. We tried it the fair way once. The system we put so much faith in failed us, failed those families. We passed the point of no involvement a long time ago, and we both know there’s only one alternative if our suspicions are correct.” She scanned the building with a look, “Way I see it, it’s two against one. If the Evans was stupid enough to get caught once, he’ll be stupid enough to do it again. You know it, I know it. Don’t try to talk me out of anything anymore. I’m here. Understand?”

Carol saw a fierce determination in Sherry’s eyes that reinvigorated her. She nodded, exited the truck for the front door. A couple of cars came or went during their walk, a man in a blue sedan sat with a phone to his ear, his mind and eyes focused elsewhere. A woman in a white uniform exhaled smoke into the air at the building’s far-edge, exhaustion on her face as she flicked ash into the air. They passed her for the small entry enclosure that contained the reception desk.

A dark haired, older woman’s fingers were preoccupied with a computer’s keyboard. She looked up, greeted them formally, “Can I help you?”

Sherry took the lead, “We’re with Mordin and Henderson, doing some follow up on a former client, Zachary Evans. We were told he may be in a rehabilitation program here.”

She typed the name, “Nope, sorry. No Evans here. At least not in the last six years, and that was a Paul Evans.”

“My mistake, forgive us,” Sherry replied as she turned for the door.

Carol followed her back out. The woman in the uniform stepped past while the man in the car seemed to be arguing heatedly about something.

Carol rolled her eyes, climbed into the truck, “What now?”

Sherry buckled her belt, “Head to the next one.”

“You don’t think she’s lying?”

“Poor woman doesn’t get paid enough to lie to lawyers,” she said simply. “It’s a good thing too, otherwise she may’ve started asking questions I can’t answer.”

“Like what?” Carol asked as Sherry triggered the ignition.

“Like why a lawyer wouldn’t know where their client was.”

Carol winced; they were out of their element, in over their heads. The truck rolled back onto the road, gather speed to gallop along cracked asphalt long ago left to time’s effects.

Carol suddenly voiced a thought, “I think that was a bad idea anyway.”

“Why’s that?” Sherry asked, focused on the road.

Carol scanned the empty cornfields that passed, “It was a small place, too close to town. Evans was rich, well known in a lot of circles. He was a Hollywood producer type, millions of people knew his name. I doubt they’d have put him so close to the general population. He’s pretty much American royalty, at least in as much as we have it. I’ve no doubt the furthest place from here’s where we’ll find him. It’s isolated, with room to be upscale– like a country club with minimum security. Not to mention filled with other rich bastards.”

“It’s still worth checking into the next one,” Sherry replied. “If only to confirm he isn’t there.”

Carol agreed, rode the next half hour in silence along a dull drive filled will empty fields or sparse tree lines. There were no other cars until they began to approach the center and State Penitentiary. Then, sheriff’s cruisers and large, white vans patrolled the area, emblazoned with state seals and the telltale, Sheriff’s star. At the thought of the risk they were taking, Carol visibly flinched at every officer that drove by.