Bringer of Fire (4 page)

Should I secure an attorney? Maybe I should ask my Dad for advice?

While both were excellent choices, I settled on a more immediate concern; namely, my sanity, or possible lack thereof.

I picked up the phone—devoid of weird Jedi-like affects this time—and cycled through the caller ID until I found Maria Edwards, the physician’s assistant from the treatment center who had called me.

The phone rang only twice before she picked up.

“Hello?”

“Maria, this is Logan Bringer. I really need to talk to you.”

Silence.

“Um, okay,” she said hesitantly.

Her voice sounded strange. Had the FBI been to see her already?

“Maria, I know this is going to come off as kind of weird, but I’ve noticed some odd side effects during the past week, and I wondered if it might be from the treatments that I’ve been taking.”

Silence.

“Maria?”

“Yes, I’m still here. What sort of side effects?”

I swallowed hard, wondering if I was about to admit something that would end with me being admitted into a mental facility.

Given everything, I was fairly certain that the FBI would probably love that. Or, at least, Agent Burroughs might.

“Well, Maria, I’ve had a couple of instances where objects kind of---”

I stopped to collect my thoughts.

“What I mean is, on occasion, I might be misjudging my perception of objects and their relative distance from me.”

Okay, that sounded all wrong.

“I-I’m not sure what you mean,” she stammered.

“Maria, I think that objects are sometimes either attracted or repelled by me.”

Yep, that sounded completely mental. Way to go, Logan.

I expected Maria to laugh or perhaps hang up, but instead I thought that I heard a sharp intake of breath.

“Logan, I want you to come to my house. There’s something that you need to know.”

I was surprised.

“Really? Tonight?”

“Tonight, Logan. Right now, in fact. And I’d rather not discuss this over the phone. Here’s my address…”

I scribbled her address on the cover of a sports magazine that was lying on my coffee table and assured her that I was on my way. I was intrigued by her reaction and so curious what she might say that not even the entire FBI could stop me from getting to her house that night.

Half an hour later, I pulled into the driveway of the address that she had given me. Maria lived in a relatively new neighborhood across town from me.

Even at night, the hedges and lawn looked immaculate. I felt so anxious to speak to her that I practically hopped from the car and onto her front porch. She must’ve been watching for me because my finger never had a chance to touch the doorbell.

“Come in, Logan. I’m glad that you called me tonight,” Maria said as she held open her front door for me.

The interior of her home looked both elegant and immaculate, making me feel as though I lived in a dump by comparison. She looked quite attractive in her faded blue jeans and dark pullover sweater as she gestured for me to sit on her couch.

She perched nervously on the edge of the couch cushion next to me and tried unsuccessfully to appear reassuring.

“Would you like something to drink? Maybe tea or coffee?” she asked.

Something to drink?
The great American greeting. My thoughts shot back to my earlier meeting with the FBI.

“No, thanks, I’m fine,” I replied.

Actually, I’m
not
fine.

“Logan, these symptoms that you described to me over the phone, are you certain they had something to do with the unexpected moving of objects?” she asked.

I nodded.

“What I’m about to tell you is—well, rather incredible, but also potentially dangerous.”

Part of me wasn’t sure if I wanted to know what she was going to say next.

“Go on,” I said. “Whatever it is, I need to know. I think I’m going crazy or something.”

She offered me a sympathetic expression.

“Logan, you’re not going crazy. The things you’re experiencing are side effects of your treatment. Other patients have experienced them before. It’s just that you’re---”

“What? I’m what?”

I was really somewhat anxious at that point. The army never trained me on how to react to shit like this.

“You’re one of the few patients who has made it this far before. Most didn’t survive their treatments.”

Both my mind and pulse raced. Of all the things she could have told me, that definitely wasn’t something I expected.

“All of the patients in your program are—well, were—terminal cancer patients just like you,” she explained as she reached out to take one of my hands in hers. “The drug has demonstrated an amazing effect on cancer tumors, but much of the time a patient’s cancer overtakes the pace of the treatment. You see, using terminal patients is the only way that the government will allow us to conduct trial testing of the drug.”

“But recent tests have shown my tumor is shrinking,” I said.

She smiled genuinely then.

“Yes, you’re one of the lucky ones. In fact, I’ve already seen your latest results from the brain scan that you took nearly two weeks ago, and your tumor has gone from small to undetectable. You were supposed to find out on Tuesday, but then---” she stopped abruptly.

“Yeah, that.”

We both fell silent.

“Logan, there’s something else you should know.”

I looked into her green eyes and easily read the apprehension in them.

“I’ve been a PA in this experimental program almost since the start of it over three years ago,” she said. “But recently, I was curious about what the success rate has been for patients undergoing the treatments. About three weeks ago, I used a workstation that one of our team doctors had left himself logged into and read the results being recorded in the centralized patient database.”

She paused and took a deep breath.

“Please promise not to tell anyone else that I’m telling you this because I could get fired. Who knows, maybe even worse.”

I frowned. Just what kind of company was she working for?

“Then why are you telling me?” I asked.

She let go of my hand abruptly.

“Because they shouldn’t be withholding this information from you; it’s simply not ethical. You’re one of the few patients in the program who were fortunate enough to survive to this stage. I found out that the patients are only being given the drug to affect their tumors so that the FDA will permit the use of terminal human subjects,” she said. “Nuclegene’s primary research was never about curing tumors. That’s just a beneficial secondary use for the drug; something acting as a catalyst in the serum also attacks most cancer tissues. Their real interest is about what happens to people if they survived the treatment on their tumors. Some patients like yourself have beaten their cancers only to die from complications of the drug. However, the causes of deaths were conveniently recorded as complications from their cancers. The company was using the cancers merely to mask their true research.”

I was definitely shocked. What she just told me sounded like the plot from a sci-fi film.

Once again,
THE
X-Files
came to mind.

Great, now I’m OCD.

I momentarily rubbed at my temples with my fingertips.

Stay focused, Logan.

“What’s the actual purpose of the drug?” I asked.

“Nuclegene is attempting to stimulate and manifest development of parts of the human brain that generally go unused. Logan, according to the information that I read, they’re trying to manifest psychic abilities, including telekinesis.”

Moving objects.

I’d actually been causing the objects to move.

“Okay. Maybe I’m not insane, but that’s just plain crazy.”

She arched her eyebrows at me.

“Weren’t you the one who was just telling me that objects were moving on their own?”

Despite the seriousness of the conversation, the corners of my mouth upturned slightly. The lighter moment lasted long enough for me to recount something she’d revealed moments ago.

“You said that other patients died even after beating their cancers. How did they die?”

Maria’s expression turned somber.

“Mostly from strokes, brain aneurisms, and in one case, suicide. Her name was Betsy, and according to the records, she developed melancholia and then severe clinical depression.”

I groaned. “You’re just full of good news, aren’t you, lady?”

She gently grasped my arm.

“Listen, you’re the youngest survivor to reach this stage. There’s no reason to believe that you can’t beat the odds. I found out that most patients were well over 40. You’re only in your late twenties, and frankly, in far better physical condition than any of our usual patients.”

She fell silent again.

“I can’t help thinking about all my co-workers and patients,” she whispered hoarsely before starting to cry.

I reached over to her coffee table to retrieve a few tissues from a Kleenex box and handed them to her.

As she dabbed at her nose, I put my arm around her and pulled her to me in a supportive embrace.

“Thanks for telling me all this, Maria. And I promise not to get you in trouble.”

Maria snuffled into her tissues while I contemplated all that she’d said.

“I just have one question.”

She blew her nose. “What’s that?”

“What the hell am I supposed to do with these revelations?”

“I don’t know, Logan,” she conceded. “I already reported to the company’s central office on the survivors listing, so they may be contacting you soon.”

“Other survivors? Who else survived?” I asked.

“Just you, me, and a data entry clerk. But we were all out of the office that day. Nobody from our office who was inside the building that day actually survived.”

My God. How horrible.

“Logan, there’s something else about the company. From the test results I saw, your cancer is probably cured. But the scan images were already posted in the company’s central database, so eventually they’ll see the results, as well. There are regions of your brain that are lit up like a Christmas tree. Based on that alone, they’re probably going to want to do more tests on you.”

I didn’t want to end up as a human guinea pig.

“I could always refuse. Better yet, let them test me. It doesn’t really matter. I can’t control what I’m doing anyway. Half the time, I just get a headache if I try, and nothing comes of it unless I’m upset.”

I recalled the items from my dining room table from earlier that evening.

“Even then, the results are erratic and more often than not result in a mess,” I added.

Maria pulled away from me slightly and pressed a small USB memory stick into my palm.

“What this?” I asked.

“It’s a copy of the test results that I just mentioned. I started making copies of materials soon after I gained access to patient records.”

“Isn’t that kind of dangerous?”

She nodded. “Yeah, but I didn’t have time to review everything that I discovered online, so my curiosity got the better of me. I’d planned to erase the data once I was finished, but the explosion got me thinking---” she stopped abruptly.

“About?”

“Wild thoughts,” she whispered.

I let my mind wonder at that. I was beginning to have wild thoughts, as well.

“There’s something else. Electrolytes,” she said.

“What?”

“The company’s notes made a lot of references to electrolytes.”

I thought about that for a moment.

“Like the stuff your body burns when you exercise?”

That was something they always preached to us in the military after hard workouts and prolonged marches.

Replenish your electrolytes.

“Exactly. And where do you replenish electrolytes from?” she asked.

“Gatorade?”

“Or most any soda,” she added.

“Like 7Up,” I breathed with sudden realization.

She nodded.

Then something else occurred to me.

“Maria, what happens if I don’t receive the last three treatments that I was scheduled for?”

She frowned.

“I really don’t recommend taking any more of that drug, Logan. With your tumor gone, for all we know, additional applications of the drug might not only be unnecessary, but also lethal,” she warned.

Lethal.

It felt like I’d been sparring with lethal for most of my adult life, just in different settings or involving other circumstances.

“What are you going to do now?” she asked.

“You mean, aside from trying to convince the FBI that I’m not a terrorist?” I quipped. “Actually, I need to go to the grocery store.”