The Iron Quill Read online

  The second time I saw it, I decided they were being pulled apart and thinking that way brought me sadness. This time, eating alone, I studied the image and decided they were being brought back together.

  The tension the image gave off was, in my mind, symbolic of trying times, but that didn’t mean it had to end in separation. Not this picture. This picture was the snapshot of the two hands making their way back to each other. Just like Wes and me. That was what I saw, and that is what I believed as I drank the last of my lemonade.

  Leaving Wes’, my mind constantly turned over ideas. Choosing not to call the police, wanting instead to give Dr. Lyon a chance to work his leads, didn’t mean I was going to stand idle.

  After fifteen minutes of brainstorming, I reached my house. My mother was inside and already cooking dinner. That was odd.

  I peeked my head into the kitchen. “Hey Mom, what’s up?”

  Her back was to me and she didn’t reply.

  “Mom?” Her hips were moving slightly. I noticed her head bobbing back and forth and realized she was listening to music. The sight was so strange, I laughed for the first time since Wes was taken.

  “Mom!” I shouted, moving further into the kitchen.

  She turned and jumped back, snatching the buds from her ears. “Oh, hi honey.”

  She looked embarrassed. “Mom . . . what is that?” I moved to inspect the source of the wires. “Did you get an iPod?”

  “Um, yes,” she said straightening up. “Why, does that surprise you?”

  I was smiling, shaking my head. “No, not at all. Well, maybe a little. Since when do you know how to work an iPod?”

  “Well, Tom bought it for me and set it up this weekend.”

  She was holding back a guilty smile. I got the feeling she and Tom had been playing house while I was away. I assessed the joy beaming from her eyes and couldn’t help but smile too.

  “Can I see it?”

  “Sure.”

  After a few minutes of unraveling herself from the wires, she handed it over. I scrolled through her songs and immediately felt like I was in the eighties. Duran Duran, U2, Bruce Springsteen. I smiled and handed it back.

  She stuck it in her pocket while I diverted my gaze over to the chopped onion and tomatoes on the counter. It looked like she was gearing up for something. “So what are you cooking?”

  “Oh, well, I missed you, and with Wes gone, you seem a bit gloomy.” Little did she know that knives stabbed at my insides when she said that word gone but I held it together. “So I thought I’d make one of your favorites. Grandma’s homemade chili and cornbread.”

  Yum, the thought of it did melt away some of the stinging knives, and my face must’ve shown my brewing comfort.

  “See, I knew it would make you feel better.” She turned back toward her preparations. “And Tom’s coming over, too. He wants to help cheer you up.”

  “Really?” I liked Tom. He seemed cool, but the idea of him caring about cheering me up took me by surprise.

  “Yeah, he does.” She turned, looking over her shoulder, and offered a gentle nod with a smile.

  I made my way over to the fridge in search of a bottled water to take upstairs. She chopped and kept talking.

  “He really does like you, you know?”

  I pulled the water out and shut the door. “Uh, okay.”

  She turned completely around to face me, waving her knife in the air. “He does. And that’s important to me. You know, he’s been widowed for ten years, and ever since he lost his only son, he’s been alone. I think you bring him comfort, almost like the daughter he never had.”

  That’s pressure. “Wow. Okay.”

  “I’m just saying. That’s what I think. At any rate . . . “ She turned back to the victims of her utensil, “he’s coming and hopefully, between the two of us, we can fill the void until Wes comes home.”

  I smiled. “Thanks. I’ll be upstairs for a while. Homework.”

  Listening to her talk about Wes, one would think she knew why he was really gone, but she didn’t. She just thought he was on a small trip and would be back soon. She attributed my near depression to just plain missing him. Which I did, but my fears were so much deeper than that.

  I felt the tears well up in my eyes again as I closed my bedroom door. The idea of homework was pushing lightly at my temples, and even stronger than that was Wes’ voice telling me to do it. He wouldn’t want me falling behind in school, but I had to ignore it. Sorry, Wes. Instead, I plopped on my bed and buried my head beneath the pillow.

  Images of the two of us passed through my mind in slow motion until they faded away, into the darkness of my sleep.

  “Sophie!” My name was distant, but I could tell it was a shout.

  I squeezed my eye lids closed and then blinked a few, slow, groggy blinks. What time is it?

  “It’s time to eat! Come on down, honey.”

  I turned over, quickly reaching for my phone while the delicious smell raced up my nostrils. It was undeniably mouthwatering, but the sensation was overtaken by disappointment when I saw zero missed calls on my cell.

  I willed my legs to follow the source of the smell until I was in the dining room. My mom had set it up as if it were Thanksgiving.

  Tom passed by me carrying a tray of cornbread. “Hey, Sophie.”

  “Hey.”

  “This looks delicious. Your mom outdid herself with this.”

  I smiled, looking down at the visible corn chunks and melted cheddar cheese baked inside the cornbread, and just like my Nana, she cut it up in huge square portions. I gravitated toward the table, fighting off memories of the last time we’d eaten in this room.

  It had been Christmas dinner and Wes was sitting in the empty seat, playing footsie with me under the table.

  Bringing me back to reality, my mom set the chili pot on the table along with bowls of shredded cheese and sour cream. I wanted to dive into the pot and cover myself with the warm sauces and spiced meat. By far, the best comfort food on the planet. I devoured the first helping of both the chili and bread and went back for more.

  My mom and Tom seemed pleased with my appetite, but spared me questions while I ate, keeping themselves at the center of the conversation. They conversed about work and the possibility of an upcoming summer vacation. Tom wanted to take her on a cruise, but she shyly put if off. I told her she should go.

  “But what about you?” she asked.

  “I’ll be fine, Mom. Really, you guys deserve a trip.”

  She couldn’t hold back her relief at my approval, and it was good to see that spark in her eyes. At that moment, I realized my mom and Tom were getting really serious. I knew that look and knew it well. There was no denying it . . . she loved him.

  Once I was finished, I thanked them for the meal and excused myself from the table, making my way back upstairs, feeling full and empty at the same time.

  Chapter 4

  THE TRUTH: DR. EVAN CARTER

  I quickly grabbed a legal pad and pen while juggling my coffee. As I headed toward the debriefing room, the legal pad began to seem inappropriate. Whatever I was about to encounter with Mr. Wilson would surely be too important for yellow striped paper. Suddenly I wished I had one of my journals. Seemed more professional.

  Despite my hesitation, I didn’t turn back, not wanting to waste time. A yellow pad for the heir to Dr. Thomas’ medical empire would have to do. I rapped on the metal door only to be greeted by silence on the other end. The soldier on guard shrugged and tilted his head backward to motion me in.

  Weston was waiting inside. Alone. Thank goodness. I seized the opportunity to tell him I was glad we finally had a few private moments to talk.

  A soft smile began to form on his young face, but then he retracted it and shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Staring, I wondered just how old he was. On one hand he had the presence of one of my colleagues and on the other, he looked like a kid.

  It was bizarre. I couldn’t figure out how to approach the situatio
n. Adding to the confusion, he appeared to be wearing the same black hooded sweatshirt and jeans he was in last night.

  I finally placed my load on the table and took my seat.

  “Coffee?” I asked.

  “No, thank you.”

  His voice was much softer than it had been last night. I attributed it to the fact that the wind wasn’t blowing in our faces or to the fact that John and a few goon privates weren’t flanking us.

  “So,” I took a much needed sip of caffeine to relax my unexplained nerves. “When I heard you were coming to meet with us, I must say I was thrilled, honored, even.”

  He raised his brow, waiting for me to continue.

  “I’ve been working very hard to find a cure for my patients’ symptoms and it’s been difficult.”

  His expression relaxed, but he still waited silently.

  “I’ve researched every method I can find, but nothing works. I feel so close to the answer, but we keep coming up short. So when I heard you were offering us some insight, I have to tell you, I was thrilled.”

  Still nothing. Instead, he sat completely still with his hands folded neatly in his lap, so I continued, “Somehow, Mr. Wilson, I get the feeling you don’t share my enthusiasm.”

  With a calm voice that hinted a level of defiance, he replied, “That’s because I don’t.”

  His response surprised me. “Why not?”

  He cleared his throat and leaned forward so his biceps were nearly touching the table. In a near whisper he said, “Would you be if you were picked up in the middle of your vacation by a helicopter and told you must give up information that you don’t have or else someone will cause harm to your loved ones?”

  I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Weston leaned back in his seat and looked away.

  Shock was building while I tried to form an intelligent reply. Finally, I whispered back, “You were taken last night? Against your will?” I’d suspected it, but didn’t really believe he would’ve been outright abducted. I’ve thought this operation capable of many things, but this was not one of them.

  He turned his head back and locked in on me. I felt an immense amount of guilt and also a sense that I was missing something.

  With one simple gesture, he nodded.

  I sucked in a deep breath, leaned back in my chair, and gulped down a swig of coffee.

  Right about then, a knock sounded at the door. “Doctor?”

  “Yes?”

  The door opened to reveal a very agitated John. His gaze traveled back and forth between Weston and me, giving me the feeling that we shouldn’t have been left alone.

  “I need to speak with you.”

  “Alright.”

  “Outside.”

  Okay. “Excuse me for one second.”

  I slid out and confronted John. “What the hell is going on?”

  “Listen, Doc. The sergeant major is on his way, so time is short.”

  “I don’t give a damn about time. He says we took him. Is that true?!”

  “Look, Doc, we needed him and now you have him. Now do your job.”

  “What the hell am I supposed to do with him? I agreed to help you guys, but not this!”

  He hissed back in my face, “You don’t have a choice. And time is running out for you, too. Since you’ve been here, you have accomplished nothing. Do you think they’ll let you walk away without fulfilling your mission? Get a clue, Doc. You have two hours to make him talk or the sergeant major will.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  He hesitated and sighed. “It means we can’t keep him here much longer without people noticing that he’s missing. And remember what I said about not being able to walk away.”

  Following that, he nearly spat through curled lips and walked off.

  I inhaled a deep breath, opened the door, and returned to my seat, feeling even more like an idiot when I saw my handy dandy legal pad. I didn’t know what the hell to do, so I started with an apology.

  “Look. I’m really sorry. I didn’t have anything to do with the way things were handled. I thought you came voluntarily. I’m just a doctor trying to serve my patients.”

  He stared at me again and shrugged. “It’s all right. If it weren’t you, it would be someone else, and I’d rather be talking to you anyway.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because you’re the only medical professional I’ve seen since I’ve been here.”

  “You mean the goons were not impressing you?”

  He laughed. “No, I’d say not.” After a short pause he added, “So what now?”

  The irony struck me that I was the one to decide, as if I were in control of this whole situation. But I guess it was up to me to somehow salvage this travesty.

  “Well, I’m going to be honest with you. John, out there, told me I have two hours to get the information I need from you. After that, a very unfriendly superior is coming to take over. I have no idea what that means.” Weston’s shoulders shuddered slightly. “So listen, if you can give me anything that I could use, I’ll do my best to end this and get you out of here as fast as possible.”

  “Well, considering I’m locked in here, it would be nice to have my phone. You don’t happen to have one I could use do you?”

  “No, actually I don’t. Cell phones are not allowed on this floor.”

  “Of course not.”

  “I’m sorry. What else can I offer you?”

  He thought for a few minutes while studying me intensely. “I need to see them.”

  “Who?”

  “Your patients.”

  “I don’t think that’s possible. You don’t have clearance.”

  “I’m not sure what you need or even whether my labs have it, but I won’t know anything until I see them. We’ve had some controlled tests done and I’ve seen the videos of the tests. I’d need to see how your patients are behaving in order to know if anything we have would help.”

  That seemed like a fair request, even if he did possibly have an underlying motive. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  After twenty minutes of talking my way past John and his little squad, Weston and I were heading down the most heavily secured wing we have. Even though John tried to escort us, I refused to watch Weston squeeze through another doorway with John at his side, so I convinced him to leave us alone. After all, I had said, where’s he going to go? Nowhere. Not on this floor.

  The first infirmary I took him to was the one we describe as the last level before heading home. We currently had four soldiers in there. Although nearly “cured”, if that’s ever possible for an addiction, they were still confined to a small area.

  Each were easily able to walk about and interact and such, but for the most part, they lie around, watching TV, shivering slightly.

  I led Weston over to the closest patient. He was only eighteen. Young kid. A lot of heart.

  “Hey, Doc. How’s it going?”

  “Good, Private.” I picked up his chart. “How about you?”

  “I’m fine. Looking forward to getting out of this place.”

  “I bet you are.”

  He reached up to rub his neck and his hand was noticeably shaking.

  “Private, this gentleman is here to help you.”

  Weston reached out his hand, from which the patient recoiled. “It’s part of the effects. He feels like his veins are crawling and he’s sensitive to any physical contact. We keep them here until that sensation and the shakes go away and then they’re free to go.”

  “I see,” Weston said, still watching the patient intently. Unexpectedly, he leaned in and began speaking to him. “Does anything hurt?”

  The patient looked at me with a hesitant expression, so I nodded for him to answer.

  “Um, not anymore. It did when I had my first injection. Then the icy burns went away for a few hours. Then I got an itching feeling until I could get another dose. Drove me crazy. Ask Doc. I was acting like a wild animal trying to get that damn itch ou
t of my veins. The only thing that would help was more of the drug. When they stopped giving it to me, I went loco. I was attacking anything that moved, so they put me on a plane here. But now . . . it don’t hurt. Don’t really itch anymore either. Just tingles like shit. It’s weird.”

  Weston appeared deep in thought and then spoke. “That’s good. Good that you’re almost better.”

  I made some notations on his chart and placed it back on the hook. From there, I took Weston to the next wing.

  “These patients aren’t quite ready to interact with others on a full-time basis, so they have private rooms.”

  He listened intently, but once we went into the room, his expression changed from curiosity to sadness. His reaction immediately transferred to me, making me feel guilty for what he was witnessing. I wasn’t the one who created this performance drug, and I wasn’t out there injecting it into the soldiers. But I had been wildly curious about it and my being here only proves I’m part of it. I could say I just want a cure, but the truth is, working to find one is only feeding the production of the drug.

  When I’m not forced to face the effects, it sounds like a good idea. Why not equip the soldiers with a tool they need to help them in combat? But no matter how quickly I tried to rationalize it, I couldn’t pull myself from Weston’s contagious sadness.

  This patient was lying on his side, curled up, rocking back and forth. As we moved closer, we could hear his repeating chant. “Make it stop. Make it stop. Stop. Please.”

  “What’s he experiencing?” Weston asked somberly.

  “He’s going through a second phase of withdrawal. The itching sensation isn’t as severe. It’s more like tickling his entire insides. They describe it as feeling like bugs are crawling in their veins.

  “It’s from the cold-blood extracts. When the particles travel through the body, they scrape the inside of the veins. That causes the initial burning sensation. After that, the body releases a natural numbing substance, giving temporary relief. Once the drug wears off, so does the body’s natural defense against it, but the body doesn’t heal the damaged veins. They’re sensitive and as the normal blood flows through them, it causes this sensation.