Rehab: Part 7


Carol awoke the next morning to a skull-splitting hangover. Her limbs were lethargic, heavier than usual. She could already sense her shortened fused. Sherry still snored from the couch, Buddy now across the room, splayed out between the coffee table and television. Carol reset the recliner, sat upright to hug her head. A murky version of the night returned, the day before it frightfully clear.

During their binge, Carol had silently resolved to seek out DePaul. She wasn’t sure what to do or say, but she would wake Sherry, inform her, then attempt to find a way to DePaul. Carol fell to her feet, shuffled to the kitchen with Buddy groggy at her heels. She let him out the door, made her coffee, then woke Sherry. After a fashion, they discussed her decision over a cup of coffee.

While he was well known, DePaul wasn’t a celebrity like Evans had been. He’d be relatively easy to contact; a business man for hire that they could meet under a false pretense. In the meantime, Carol hoped to discern the point to it. Babcock had said his patients retained none of their memories or personality. Carol had to be careful to test him without making him suspicious, find some way to discern if he’d truly been changed.

The ride to Sherry’s to shower and re-dress was infected with yawns and Buddy’s whimpers in the truck’s back seat. It was a risk taking him along with his weak stomach, but Carol felt more comfortable cleaning up barf than leaving him alone. The brief intermission at Sherry’s was followed by a stop at a fast food joint for more coffee.

Sherry inched them along the drive-through’s queue while Carol’s eyes rose absently to the side-view mirror. A blue sedan maneuvered into a space a few cars back, the man in it only just visible. Her eyes narrowed, the truck rolled forward. Sherry’s voice sounded, honed Carol’s vision. She grappled a coffee handed to her, suddenly recognized the car: She’d seen it at the rehab center just outside the city. The man inside was on his cell-phone again, as he had been when she’d first seen him.

She spoke at a hush as Sherry cranked up her window, “Someone’s following us.”

“What? Where?”

“Don’t make it obvious. The blue Ford, five o’clock.”

Buddy’s ears perked up in the back seat. He sniffed at the air, caught their scent, began to whimper louder. Sherry pulled forward, took her time to let the car follow. She adjusted the side-view mirrors with a subtle hand, pulled onto the avenue.

With a clear view of the restaurant’s exit, they rolled into the far lane, stopped at a light. The sedan reappeared, hesitated. The light changed, the truck started forward. The sedan waited a moment longer, eased out into the morning traffic to settle a quarter-mile behind them. Carol gave a few, precise directions, weaved them in and out of traffic. The sedan fell in line behind them, weaved carefully, disappeared again only to emerge moments later, nearer by. Carol tested the car, made errant turns for no discernible destination.

Sherry was agitated, her knuckles white over the wheel, “What should we do?”

“Can Mike help?”

“I doubt it,” she replied, her voice higher than usual. “Even if he could, I don’t think he’d want to be involved in this.”

Carol surveyed the gridded streets; there were plenty of places to park, leave the truck to hide in. On the other hand, Buddy couldn’t follow them, and she wasn’t going to leave him behind. Moreover, hiding only prolonged the inevitable. Whoever followed them likely had orders from someone, possibly even knew where they lived. There could be no end without some confrontation.

The weight of the holstered pistol at her side comforted her, Buddy’s quiet, helpless whimpers swallowed little fear she had left. Her eyes closed on a mental layout of the city to study it. To the North was an old, abandoned train-yard that would give her room to move in– If the car followed them that far. The truck’s digital compass read out “NE” from below its rear-view mirror. Her mind raced, connected her destination to a side road ahead.

“Make a left.” Sherry’s face rippled with confusion. “Just trust me, make the turn.”

Sherry winced, maneuvered the truck off the four lane avenue onto a smaller, two lane side-street, “Wanna’ clue me in here?”

“Not yet.”

The truck’s compass shifted to “N.” They kept forward, moved with the speed limit through sparse traffic that revealed the car behind them still followed. They were blocked on either side by high office buildings, but would soon pass through older, residential districts before the road made a ninety-degree left. She tried to map the road in her mind; the turn would lead them north-west, then the road Teed off. A right at the T, then a left, and another into the train-yard.

She watched the sedan, “Right.”

They turned, the sedan disappeared. A moment later it curved onto the road behind them. She glanced at Buddy in the rear-view mirror; he moaned, fidgeted. She knew the behavior well, encountered it each time they headed for the Vet. This was different though, more intense. All of his instincts told him to run. She sympathized.

She looked to Sherry, directed them through the next left. The train-yard began to sprawl out beside them. Sherry’s knuckles and fingers had turned purple. Obvious terror formed sweat on her forehead and upper-lip. Carol winced. She didn’t blame Sherry for her fear, she was a twenty-eight year-old, sex-fueled workaholic used to the fast paced, metropolitan lifestyle. She could’ve never been prepared for this, doing what they had to survive, right wrongs. For that matter, Carol wasn’t sure she was any different, but had led them here all the same.

“Left,” Carol directed at the yard’s small access road, the sedan far behind on the empty road. “Carrie?” She squeaked.

“Pull in to one side. If he follows us in, we’ll pull forward, block him off at the gates.”

Sherry’s sweat doubled, her face drained of color beneath the oily sheen. Carol’s violent reaction and confrontation with Babcock had struck too quickly for Sherry to react. This time it had been a slow slow build that allowed her nerves to get the best of her. Buddy’s whimpers didn’t help. Carol reached back with a hand, rubbed Buddy’s muzzle without turning. She couldn’t afford to alert their pursuer.

They rolled along the short entrance to the train-yard, the chain gates wide open with one half hanging from its hinges. It rolled past the passenger window. Sherry immediately veered right, parked parallel to the gate. They would have precious, few seconds to block the man in once Carol gave the word.

The truck came to a rest beside an outcrop of stacked box-cars that lined a rusty, barbed-wire chain-link fence. The yard was massive, a maze of rusted steel and worn rail-roads with stacks of weathered ties every few hundred feet. Carol’s heart pounded, her breath ragged. Buddy flattened himself against the seat, each breath a high wheeze of terror.

Carol soothed him, “Quiet down, Buddy. Please.

He went silent, albeit not without a reservation in his eyes. Carol slouched in her seat, made herself as difficult to spot as possible. Sherry followed, her breath laden with fear, terror. Her hands tight, purple fists.

Five minutes passed, then ten. No car appeared.

“M-maybe he’s out there, w-waiting for us,” Sherry stammered at a whisper.

Carol rolled in her seat watch see truck’s rear through the side-view mirror, “Maybe. Either way, we wait.”

Fifteen minutes and Carol was disheartened; twenty and she already had another trap planned. She wasn’t giving up, letting this man try to silently hound them. Before she had threatened the doctor, she wouldn’t have given his presence a second’s thought, but she sensed more at work now. They’d arrived at the first rehab center with the man already tailing them. Someone had wanted them followed even before they’d learned the truth, there was no reason for them to stop now. She suspected someone had intercepted Mike’s request for DePaul’s records, had been watching for any inquiries about him– someone on the inside.

How high does this go?

Carol moved to speak, suddenly stopped. A movement in the mirror caught the corner of her eye as a man inched his way toward the rear of the truck. They flattened further, invisible, but Carol caught a glimpse of him. His shoes crunched gravel, headed away from the truck, but she didn’t hear it. She was caught in utter shock.

Son of a bitch!” Carol spit at a hush.

“What? What’s going–”

“Back the truck up, but stay in it.”

She threw open the door, drew her pistol. The truck started as the pistol’s sights zeroed in on the man’s head. He turned, startled by the noise. Carol’s teeth ground together.

“You son of a bitch!”

It was Art Warren, the state-man that dealt with Ed and Chuck– the one that so peculiarly resembled Pee-Wee Herman in his tweed and bow-tie. Both gone now, replaced by fresh-pressed khakis and a windbreaker over a button-up shirt. Even the Brylcreem slick in his hair had been washed away to a spiked, jet blackness.

“Warren, you son of a bitch! Talk!” She yelled.

He cocked a smug grin, shouted back, “What makes you think I’ll tell you shit? The gun? You won’t fire it.”

He began to step forward in time with Carol. She fired a round into the ground in front of him. He flinched, smacked by gravel that dusted the air.

Carol’s steps were slow, deliberate, “What the hell’s going on! What’re you doing here?”

The state-man shook off the shock, resumed his steps to continue closing the distance. He no longer needed to shout, “Yeah, big girl with a gun. Didn’t really think you’d make off with those files so easily, did you?”

Carol made a mental calculation, the gun at eye-level. A single bullet whizzed past his left ear, ricocheted off an over-turned rail-car and into oblivion.

Warren froze, his smug superiority fell away to a shaky calm, “What d’you want to know?”

“Who the hell are you?” Carol said as the truck’s door opened and shut behind them. Sherry stepped for her side as Buddy woofed and howled in the truck. Carol judged the situation, awaited the man’s reply. By his smugness, it was clear he was armed. His only problem lay in accessing his weapon. It was clear between them that she wouldn’t miss again, but Sherry was in danger now. On top of that, Buddy was an easy target. If she lost the upper hand, some one would die.

He took a few steps forward, and Carol’s aim landed on his head, “Close enough.”

Sherry squinted beside her, refused to believe her eyes, “Pee-wee!? Art? You’re following us?”

He considered his options, replied in earnest, “Leon Greene.”

“Who d’you work for?” Carol demanded.

“When I’m Art Warren, it’s the Ohio State Government. Unfortunately, public service doesn’t quite pay well enough, so Leon Greene takes some matters into his own hands.” His eye twitched, “But does it really matter? You can’t expect to walk away from this.”

“It matters to me.” Carol said, her aim steady. “I’ll offer you the same deal I gave Babcock; you tell me what I need to know, I’ll let you go.”

He considered it with a tilt of his head, “It’ll only add to your confusion, send you in the wrong direction. But I’ll give you what you want.” Carol allowed him a few steps forward, “Your bosses aren’t the philanthropists they appear to be, but they’re more opportunists than they let on.”

Confusion trickled into the back of Carol’s mind, “I need more.”

“What the hell’s he talking about?” Sherry whispered.

Greene took another step, spoke casually, “Mordin and Henderson employ me under the table to … clean up, their messes.”

Carol finally saw the last, hidden pieces of the puzzle revealed. She still wasn’t certain how they fit together, but at least now she could affix them given enough time. Greene’s words lent a certain kind of sense to her bosses’ success in such a weakened economy. If they had major investments on the side that Greene kept track of, was involved in while retaining his hand in state affairs, the firm would receive as many deferrals as it would need while for the firm to avoid formal inquiry. In the meantime, Ed and Chuck would be getting rich off whatever it was they’d invested it. The only thing left was how the rehab centers fit in to it. She gathered Greene wouldn’t know that.

“So you’re… what, some sort of spy?” Sherry asked.

“I suppose you could call me that, I consider myself more a P-I.”

“Pee-Wee Herman gag’s a bit much,” Carol scoffed.

Sherry agreed, “Yeah, makes you stick out, not blend it.”

He laughed, “You’d think so wouldn’t you? Fooled you though.”

“This is ridiculous,” Sherry said dismissively. She shot a look at Carol, “You really believe Ed and Chuck’re behind all of this?”

Carol’s grip on the gun tightened, “How do I know you’re not lying?”

Greene shot her a disappointed look, “You question it now? After you’ve already figured it out?”

She blinked off the ridicule, “I need evidence. Physical proof.”

“I can’t give you it,” he said earnestly. “But I’d assume its not to hard to find, if you know what to look for.”

Carol eyed him, “What’re you saying?”

His head bobbed subtly as he explained, “This kind of operation’s not something you make public, but it’s also not something you keep track of without leaving a trail. I assure you it won’t be hard to find. There’ll be paperwork, ledgers, computer files. I’d start there.”

He was right, she knew it. The evidence would be simple enough to find now. Ed and Chuck both suffered various levels of obsessive compulsiveness, a disorder that required they keep meticulous details of every thing in their lives. It was a curiously fortunate coincidence that had originally brought them two together as friends. Now, it would undoubtedly condemn them, reveal their involvement in the rehab program. There friendship may have even been the catalyst to their schemes.

While some things still required an explanation, she was satisfied with Greene, would keep their deal, let him go.

“Drop your gun on the ground, and go.” He reached for it under his jacket. “Other hand. Good. Slow.” It fell to the ground. He stepped forward. “I ever see you again, and I won’t hesitate. Get lost.”

Sherry returned to the truck, pulled away from the gate. Greene stepped within arm’s reach of Carol as she lowered her gun.

“I trust you won’t say anything to either of them,” she said, eyeing him.

He gave a laugh and smiled, “Wouldn’t dream of it. I’ve been waiting for this cluster-fuck to blow up in their faces for years. Always thought I’d go down with them…. Guess not.”

“We’ll see.”

His smugness returned, “I know.” He explained, “My name won’t come up, and even if it does, I’ll be gone. I got paid well and that’s what mattered.” He stepped away, “Good luck.”

She holstered her pistol, “What if I need more?”

“You won’t,” he shouted as he disappeared past the gate.

Carol sighed, retrieved Greene’s pistol, and returned to the truck. She handed it to Sherry, pointed to a lever on one side, “Safety on.” She flicked the lever. “Safety off.”

“What am I supposed to do with this?”

“Just don’t aim it at any of us and you’ll be fine. I’ll help you learn.”

She attempted a weak smile, “Okay, whatever you say.”

Sherry backed up from the train-yard, Greene and his sedan already long gone. Carol scanned for him, sensed their deal would be kept.

“We need to find Ed and Chuck,” she instructed.

“Ed’ll be home, and Chuck’s probably at the office getting ready for tomorrow.”

A corner of Carol’s eye twitched, “Let’s go see Chuck then.”

Rehab: Part 6


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.

Rehab: Part 4


The next day at work, just before lunch, Sherry handed Carol a single, manila file folder. She, Ed, and Chuck had a luncheon to attend with a District Attorney’s assistant, Carol relegated to manning the fort for the rest of the day. Sherry instantly put a finger to her lips, mouthed the words “after we’re gone.”

As soon as the office-door closed, Carol threw open the folder to several packets of papers, some stapled, others paper-clipped together. The top page had an FBI seal, an “Investigate Act” request number to one side, and a name beneath it; Anthony Phillip DePaul.

Carol’s eyes widened. Sherry had somehow managed to make a request through the FBI on the Investigative Act– the same one used to dredge up attorney-client meetings in public places– and not only had it approved, but received it in less than a day. There were detailed histories on everything about DePaul; medical records, grade transcripts, licenses, registrations, and virtually everything else Carol could imagine.

She instantly suspected Sherry’s old boyfriend, Mike; a Detective at OPD and a rather well-connected sleuth. It was no doubt he’d immediately requested and received everything available to DePaul from the FBI, probably as a personal favor to Sherry. She had no misconceptions that her own record had likely been reviewed. It was now a rather standard, if not corrupt, practice for trial lawyers to obtain opponent records from people they knew on the inside. Most did so with the hope of building a better trial, learning their adversaries tactics and devising strategies to counter them personally.

She thumbed through the first packet of papers, DePaul’s medical records, then set it aside for a moment to focus on a series of business contracts. Oakton’s city seal was emblazoned in gold and tamped into the pages from a notary, identified in the contracts. Next, were a series of contracts signed over from Allen to DePaul construction. Evidently the latter had made at least one right move; in acquiring Allen, he’d also acquired thirty-eight million dollars worth of building deals it had taken on just before it began to fail. No doubt they were guaranteed to him as per the company’s buy-out. Though it was useless, it nourished her hopes for evidence of foul-play, anything that would explain the intensity of her disgust for the man.

She set the second stack atop the first, revealed high-school and college transcripts beneath it. Evidently DePaul had attended, then dropped out of, Oakton State University across town. Oddly enough, he had no previous employment history. The thirty-five year old man had probably gone from being paid under the table to head of his own company. The image of a multimillion dollar construction guru came later, however it had formed.

She cast aside the third stack of papers, flipped through what had been paper-clipped together. It amounted to roughly thirty pages of printed text documents and digital scans of business news articles. She’d seen all of the latter before, the former largely DMV and credit-card records.

That was it; all there was to the file. She sank in her chair, more dejected than ever. A sickly sense of loss and shame coursed through her. She’d invaded this man’s privacy, questioned his integrity, all for selfish reasons, and there was nothing here. She could go through his medical records with a fine tooth comb, but what was the point? What was she even looking for? How could doctor’s visits, or childhood ailments keep her from falling into debilitating fits each time she saw the man?

She sat silent for a long moment, her eyes fixed past the disheveled desk. Her short stare broke with a sigh, her body and mind drained. The fax suddenly rang, startled her as it began to print out several pages.

She shook her head, her nerves frayed, “Kathy’s right. I’m just projecting.”

The fax machine printed ceaselessly. Pages spilled off the table, onto the floor. Carol rolled her eyes, pushed herself up to collect them, then shuffled them into a stack. The fax machine ceased and the room quieted once more. She set the pages aside to re-fill the fax’s paper, completed the menial task only to return with the pages to her desk, engage in another bout of tedium as she re-arranged the skewed pages into order.

Before she could sit, the office phone rang. She began the usual, formal greeting but Sherry cut her off midway through, “Did a fax just come in?”

“Yeah, easily thirty-to-forty pages thick. What the hell’s in it?”

“Check the cover page.”

She sifted for the last page printed, “To Sherry; Hope this helps. Your frie-”

“That’s all I needed,” Sherry said. “It’s for you– Evans’ file. I hoped it would come in earlier, but maybe it’ll help. I gotta go hun, I’m supposed to be in the bathroom. Let me know if you find anything.”

The phone cut out. Carol set it back on its receiver, slowly retook her seat. She began to thumb through familiar pages. She’d seen Evans’ file during his trial, had committed much of it to memory for the sake of a proper prosecution. How could this help? What more could Sherry have hoped to gain from the fax? How were stacks of papers going to help her get over an illness? What she needed was to look in the bastard’s eyes through the bars of a cell, or from behind transparent plexiglass, stare him down until his heart exploded. She wanted his obituary, not his biography.

An inexplicable rage built within her. For a moment she thought she might scream. She closed her eyes to breathe deep, did her best to calm herself. She was rarely ever so quick to anger, and in its wake, shame tingled in her chest. Her shoulders sank with adrenaline that waned.

She shoved both dossiers into her briefcase, resolved to leave any further investigation until after work. Something so heavy, combined with being cooped up in the office wouldn’t be healthy no matter the eventual outcome. It was several hours before she’d settled on the couch at home, flipped on the television for noise, then retrieved the dossiers.

Buddy snoozed on the couch’s far-end, his nose whistling from atop the dopey look of sleep on his muzzle. His feet occasionally bucked here and there, no doubt from a dream of chasing tails and cars. Carol leaned the briefcase against the sofa’s bottom, laid the folders open on either side of her. She drew from the right; Evans’ files. The police reports listed priors and current charges beneath the smug sneer that haunted her. His cold, brown eyes were like black holes against the fiery star-light of his orange, prison jumpsuit. A curdle of bile burst in her stomach at his face.

She read over the information without taking it in; Name; Zachary Evans, DOB; August 30th, 1985. Sex, Male. Occupation; head of Three Star Entertainment. It was all old news to her, even the medical documents; blood type B negative, height; six-three, weight; 230lbs.

She’d seen it for the months preceding the trial, then months longer during it. The next pages were boiler-plate doctor’s forms signed by the patient, an E.R. slip from when Evans had broken his arm ten or more years ago on a ski-trip in Colorado, and photocopied x-rays of pins in his arm.

It was all an exercise in review, completely useless for her aims. She wanted to find out where Evans was, go there and face him. She needed to know why DePaul afflicted her as he did, that for certain the two men weren’t the same person. She knew she should drop it, go no further, but her concerns for her own health made her reckless, impulsive.

She set the papers down, rose for the bathroom and lingered before the mirror for a moment. Her eyes were haggard, baggy. Purple, sleepless circles had formed above more wrinkles than usual. She looked tired enough to sleep away a weekend, felt it too. She needed rest, tranquility, but couldn’t seem to find it. A deep well of uneasiness had been broached within her, a pump of concerns and fears installed with an automated trigger that only flood her with stress. The nagging threat of another episode merely kept her awaiting it to come, her mind and body skiddish, prepared to be ravaged.

She exhaled a long, tense breath, turned off the tap to dry her hands. The slow walk back to the living room ended with a sideways crane of her neck as she groaned.

“Damn it, Buddy!”

The hound had spread out in his sleep during her absence, managed to crumple a packet of papers. He’d even dug in a pair of nails for good measure She hurried forward. Her feet echoed, startled Buddy awake. Shredded paper signaled the sundering of the packet.


She rushed the couch, threw the last of the papers off to save them. He looked around, confused. She groaned obscenities, caused Buddy to hide his head in a corner of the couch. She swept the last of the papers to the furthest end of the couch while Buddy whimpered in his hovel.

“It’s okay, pup,” she sighed with a pat on the head. He whimpered again as she gently lifted his back paws to retrieve the scraps of paper, set them on the floor with the others and lift the stack all at once.

A torn section of DePaul’s medical records caught her eye. It sat atop Evans’, overlaid almost perfectly. Her vision narrowed as if another episode were about about to overtake her. Instead, her eyes focused. The bottom page read out; Name; Zachary Evans, DOB; August 30th, 1985. Sex, Male. Occupation; head of Three Star Entertainment. Then, replaced by DePaul’s torn scrap; blood type B negative, height; six-three, weight; 230lbs.

There could be no doubt, the two were identical.

What the hell?

She stared at the pages; maybe her mind was playing a trick on her. A double, then a triple take confirmed it. Maybe she’d shuffled the papers, gotten two copies– but no, she knew she hadn’t. One had been given to her by Sherry, the other faxed by Mike.

There was no disputing it now. More questions, millions entwined with a thousand new fears and concerns, but it was undeniable; Anthony DePaul was Zachary Evans.

Her heart ran hurdles. Her mind filled with images of the two, tried fit the pieces of the puzzle together: It couldn’t be Evans, he was still carrying in the rehab facility, part of a six-year program. The length of was non-negotiable. That was the compromise the courts had made against the direct opposition of twenty-year sentences that drained the taxpayer, overcrowded the prisons. Six years was the bare minimum before a rehabilitated criminal was reassessed. If they didn’t seem to be genuinely changed, they remained in rehab for as long as it took. There was no chance for an appeal, and no bargains to be made. That was the way it worked. What it was designed for, and what Evans had been given.

But DePaul was to Evans. The medical records couldn’t lie. They had to be correct or it might kill the man. Carol had no misconceptions about the rest, she’d seen the corrupted system first-hand. Everything else about DePaul could be falsified or forged. What Evans would have likely counted on was the lack of interest in comparing these two, radically unaffiliated men’s medical files. It was a billion to one that anyone would even possess both of them, let alone actively search for a connection between them.

With the revelation, it appeared all of the puzzle’s pieces now lay before her. She need only to fit them together, but there was only one person that could help her finish the puzzle.