The Rasner Effect (8 page)

Glen’s eyes widened. Jake pressed harder. Glen gasped for air. Jake glared down on him with squinted eyes. It was the same look he gave his victims a lifetime ago—before he squeezed the trigger.

“Make no mistake about it.” He spoke slowly and clearly, but low. “If I have to clean any more shit I shouldn’t have to clean, I’m going to clean it with that pretty boy haircut of yours.” Jake maintained the pressure a few seconds longer, then added, “I assume you understand me,
dude
?”

Glen gave a quick nod of the head.

“Good.”

Jake stepped away and around the broom closet door, whistling as if nothing had happened. Through the crack near the hinge, he saw Glen, still leaning against the wall looking shell-shocked. Both hands clutched his chest. Jake was unable to suppress a smile. As much as he hated to admit it, he’d enjoyed that.

Chapter Seven

The town of Brookhill was known for its many small one-story houses. One large manor sat on the hill, which the town was named after. It was to this house that Rick had hiked at least two evenings a week since arriving here. He always enjoyed the warm greeting he received.

Dr. Obenchain shook Rick’s hand. “How are you, Rick?” The doctor smoothed his red tie over a gray sweater.

“I’m all right,” Rick answered. “But I do need to talk. I have some things to go over.”

“Then you’ve come to the right place. Let’s go to my office.”

Rick followed Obenchain through the garage that led to his basement office. The office contained an easy chair in front of a couch and an office desk. On the desk sat a photograph framed in gold. The photo depicted the doctor, beside him stood a high-class woman and a young blond-haired boy. Rick picked up the picture. “How’s Arnold?”

“He’s doing very well. He’s making the Dean’s list at his school. Sure, it’s only third grade but I still see it as following in his father’s footsteps.”

Rick smiled, showing his joy for the man who was both his therapist and friend. In fact, Obenchain was perhaps the only friend he had since his life re-started seven years ago. Pride glowed on Harold Obenchain’s face over his son’s accomplishments. As he peered over Rick’s shoulder, his smiled evaporated.

“I’m sure you still miss her,” Rick said.

“Of course. Arnold does, too, even if he is too young to remember her. He was only an infant when she died.”

Obenchain gave what seemed like a bitter glance. As Rick wondered what caused such a reaction, the doctor caught himself and returned to his joyful smile. “Let’s begin.”

Rick set the picture on the corner of the desk and took a seat on the couch. Dr. Obenchain picked up a clipboard and pen from the desk, then sat in the easy chair.

“I often wonder about my life before the accident. Recently, I’ve been doing that a lot more than usual.”

“Why do you think that is?” Obenchain asked, ready to take notes.

“I’m not sure.” Rick sat back, folding his hands together and tipping his head back in thought. “I’ve just been doing a lot of wondering. Who were my friends? Was I married? Was I going to get married? I know the records didn’t show I was married, and I know we haven’t come across anything to suggest it during hypnosis. Still, there’s so much that’s a blank.”

“I’m sure, in time, those memories will return. You were only twenty-six years old when we found you in the debris on the bridge. You had no personal residence. The only family we could find were your parents and sibling. Chances are you weren’t married, Rick.”

“Sometimes I feel like I remember someone.” He felt a frown creasing his brow. “It’s like I can see her out of the corner of my eye, but not directly.”

“We have discussed this in the past. Despite our attempts to find out who she was through your hypnosis sessions, we’ve drawn a blank. She may not be real at all. Then again, she may be a relative or someone you remember seeing somewhere, and the image stuck with you. She could be just a residual memory and not a particularly important one.”

“But how do we know? For that matter, how do we even know any of these memories are real?”

Obenchain tapped his clipboard with the nib of the pen. Rick felt the doctor’s eyes observing him, but didn’t look up to confirm.

“Why would you think otherwise?” the doctor asked.

“I don’t know. The memories are coming back, but I don’t truly remember living them. It’s like I can see them, but I don’t feel them.” He lifted his head from the cushion and looked at the Doctor, feeling embarrassed. “Does that make sense? I’m not sure it does.”

“If that is how you feel, then it makes sense. But let’s go with this. What do you think those memories could be if they’re not your memories?”

“I’m not sure.” Rick turned so he could lie across the couch, placing his head against the armrest. “Fantasies, perhaps? Memories I wish were real?”

“Or perhaps you did live in that big house with the picket fence you remember. But, what do I always tell you?”

“To focus on the moment which I
can
control as opposed to the past, which I can’t.”

“Exactly.” Obenchain grinned. “So let’s shift to current events. How was your first day on the job?”

“Interesting,” was the only word he could think of to describe his new work environment.

“I figured you would do well there. Katherine Miller is a long-time acquaintance of mine. She lives in Brookhill as well.”

Rick did not answer but Obenchain saw his silence as a direct response. “She’s not leaving you with a favorable impression?” the doctor joshed.

“I was told I’d know I was accepted once Miss Miller started yelling at me. Well, she did, almost immediately. So I guess I’m part of the team.”

“I didn’t know she was a yeller.” Obenchain laughed then realized his reaction had only made Rick uncomfortable. “You have to understand, I see her in a different environment. I see her mostly during community functions and in an official capacity. I serve as a member of the Board of Directors for the facility, you know.”

“I guess maybe she’s a nicer person away from the job,” Rick suggested, although he didn’t believe it for a second.

“She runs a good facility. They help children who need it.”

“But do any of them really get help? Do any of them ever get out?” Rick wanted an answer other than the one Hefner had given him.

“Some do.” Obenchain’s response sounded more like a guess. “Of course, some don’t. Some are there for inadequacies that leave them with difficulty functioning in society. Without the intense treatment they receive, they will forever be a danger to themselves and others.”

“That would be a shame.” Rick sat up. He shook his head.

“It’s not an easy place to work, I know that.” Obenchain placed the clipboard on his desk. “I’m sure you’ll do good work there. In the time I’ve known you, I’ve seen you become a caring individual who will make rational and caring decisions. I am now confident you will see these children’s best interests are met.”

Although he found the wording strange, the compliment brought a smile to Rick’s face. Knowing he was pleasing his mentor gave him a great sense of satisfaction.

Dr. Obenchain knew this as well. “Is there anything else, Rick?”

Rick opened his mouth, but then stopped himself. “No,” he finally answered.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Very well, then.”

Both men stood up. “I hate to cut your visit short, Rick, but today is Arnold’s birthday. I promised him a dinner of his choice and a cake. I’m sure that means I’ll have to eat pizza again.”

“Wish your son Happy Birthday for me.” Rick shook the doctor’s hand and began his long hike home.

Chapter Eight

Derrick sat in his kitchen typing on his computer. He thought he typed fast for someone with no training. He reached to the side and clicked the mouse to save his document. He’d just touched his fingers back on the keyboard when a hot draft fluttered across his face and bare legs. There was a flash of color off to his right and he turned his head. Down the hallway, the front door stood wide open. Bright blue sky made his eyes water. A hand touched his shoulder. He spun in the chair. A thin blonde lady, about his age, with pale arms folded across her chest, stood over him. Her violet-colored eyes were slightly slanted, her arms, while not muscular, were decently toned. She wore khaki-color shorts and a white tank top, cut low in front. She didn’t have big breasts but they were up high. The rounded mounds pushed from the top of the shirt.

He wrenched his gaze from her chest. “You don’t believe in knocking?” he asked his sudden guest. This was as much of a greeting as he was willing to offer.

“My father made sure I would never need to knock on a door in order to enter a room,” Jen replied with a sarcastic smirk with which Derrick was all too familiar.

“The Colonel taught us well. Especially you, his namesake.” Derrick referred to the man with fondness. “Hey, remember the time when we were hired to kill that diplomat and you…”

“I’m sure you didn’t make me drive through half a state just to reminisce about the old days.” Jen maintained her stance, arms folded across her chest. “You said it was important. What do you want?”‘

Derrick rolled his chair toward the kitchen table, which looked like it had been the cheapest one at a flea market. Besides being small and green, it was plastic and wobbled on weak legs. Still no tablecloth but the surface had been scrubbed to a glossy sheen. Jen glared down at him, waiting for a response to her question.

“I’m a genius. But more importantly, I was right!”

Jen’s eyes narrowed. “We’ve been through this before, Derrick.”

“He’s not dead.”

“I’m not anxious for another wild goose chase.”

“No wild gooses here, Jennie. He’s alive. And this time, I have proof.”

Jen’s interest was finally piqued. She dropped her arms and leaned forward, placing her palms on the table. The top hem of her tank top bowed out, exposing those round breasts. She was braless. No surprise.

Derrick sat up straighter in his chair. His eyes took on a mind of their own. If she bent a little further forward, he might get a glimpse of…

“Show me what you have,” she barked.

Derrick slapped his hands together like a dealer ready to hand out the cards. “Take a seat.”

Jen remained standing.

“Or don’t, that’s okay, too.” Derrick cleared his throat and waved a hand at his computer. “Now, just to point out, I shouldn’t have been doubted in the first place, especially considering how often my psychic abilities helped our group over the years.”

“As I recall, your
psychic abilities
,” she stressed the last two words as though they left a bad taste in her mouth, “were always reported after the fact!” Jen smiled, but it wasn’t friendly. “You know this is a very sore subject for me. It brings back a lot of pain. So I want you to offer me something—other than your smugness—that I barely tolerated and could never stand, even back when we were kids.”

Derrick swallowed. How did she always suck the confidence out of him? He drew in a breath. “Okay, remember that chat room I set up online in case one of our own needed to find us? With all the abrupt relocating we always had to do, it kept us accessible to everyone as long as they knew how to get in.”

“As I remember, I told you a number of years back to kill it off.”

“Yes you did, and luckily, I didn’t follow your order.” Derrick felt a resurgence of his haughtiness. “I still keep close track of our chat room. I know if anyone signs in—day or night.”

Jen remained unimpressed.

“Now,” Derrick continued, “knowing your boyfriend’s lack of computer knowledge, I made sure this IP address and password would lure him into the chat room. He was always so impatient, so quick to jump into situations. It was expected he would get separated from us whenever we needed to retreat. That’s what your father always said about him, by the way. Before we, well you and he…you know.”

Derrick rolled his right thumb across his neck.

“And your point is?”

He stifled a burst of irritation. “It was because of this I made him type in that IP address and password so many times over the years, again and again, until it became instinctive. Were he ever to sit in front of a computer, his fingers would type in that information before his brain could even register what he was doing.”

Jen, with an annoyed smirk, tapped the knuckles of her right hand against the edge of the table, a signal for Derrick to hurry up with his explanation. He placed both his elbows on the table and slapped his hands together. “Okay, do you remember about four months ago when I told you we had a visitor in our chat room?”

“I do remember.” Her tone made him glance at her feet—leather-thong sandals, pink nail polish—he expected her to be tapping a toe in irritation. “It was just one of the dozens of times over the last seven years that someone stumbled into that chat room of yours, even without your
valid password
. It wasn’t the first time you thought it was him.”

“True, I may have jumped the gun a few times, no pun intended.” Derrick’s eyes rested on the revolver tucked into Jen’s belt. “But keep in mind, every single time someone
stumbled
into the chat room, I was able to track the user and figure out their identity.”

Derrick folded his hands and leaned forward, unable to keep a huge goofy grin from spreading across his face. “Every single time, that is, except this one.” He pointed a finger in the air. “There was no username, there was no identity attached to the login.”

“I remember. And I believe I told you to come to me only if your investigation led somewhere.” Now the toe did start tapping on his linoleum floor. “Has it?”

“Thanks for asking. As I said, I couldn’t track the user. I believe it’s because I tried the next day and the account was removed from the Internet. Didn’t leave a trace. Naturally, that made it suspect for me. I did, however, manage to track the computer where the login originated.” The toe stopped tapping. He grinned—she was interested. “It came from a computer in a junior high school in Queens, New York.”

“This is what you called me here for? It could have been anyone…even a child. It proves your system wasn’t exactly foolproof.”