Frankenstorm: Deranged Read online

  Kaufman couldn’t do anything about the fact that Ollie Monk was an obnoxious, bigoted asshole, but he’d be damned if he was going to let him step out of line with that militia of his, or whatever it was. He’d become sheriff just a year after Ollie had begun what he referred to as “working with homeless veterans.” He’d asked Ollie for a tour of the place, just a friendly visit so Kaufman could become more familiar with what Ollie was doing out there in the woods.

  “Tell you what, sheriff,” Ollie had said. “If you want to come out some evening, after business hours, as a citizen and not a sheriff, I’d be happy to give you a tour of the facilities.”

  Ollie seemed pretty confident that Kaufman wouldn’t do that. But he did. He showed up one Friday evening in jeans, a blue chambray shirt, and his favorite cowboy hat. Ollie was unusually quiet and stammered a lot. He gave Kaufman a tour, but it was brief and hardly complete. It was the only time he’d seen Ollie nervous and uncomfortable, squirming like a caterpillar being held by a pair of tweezers. Kaufman’s visit was unexpected and Ollie was unprepared, not entirely in control of the situation. It was gratifying. After that, Kaufman made one visit a year in his street clothes. He always brought a cake or a pie. He could tell Ollie hated the visits, but he always went along with them, smiling the whole time. Each time, Ollie took him on a drive around the property and introduced him to some of the men.

  Kaufman was impressed. Ollie not only had managed to get some serious drunks and drug addicts cleaned up, he had them in good spirits, as well. They looked healthy, vigorous, and happy. Kaufman did not think Monk’s militia was as much of a threat as Ollie Monk’s proud ignorance and stupidity, but there was nothing he could do about that. He still thought Ollie was an asshole, but he was doing good work with the homeless.

  Then Ollie got the idea that the homeless people who had disappeared had been kidnapped by the people at the old mental hospital. They worked for Vendon Labs, which had been involved in some kind of drug testing, which meant that experimenting on kidnapped homeless people would be business as usual.

  Renner had told him about that, and then he’d looked into it himself. He remembered the hearings back in the 1970s, but he hadn’t paid very close attention to them back then. He found the whole thing very disturbing, something he would prefer was just a spooky conspiracy theory. It was the kind of thing that made being patriotic a little bit harder than it already was. It also made it perfectly reasonable to be suspicious of shady government projects.

  But Kaufman did not see that happening at Springmeier, and he told Ollie he was wrong. Several times. When he got tired of saying it, he threatened Ollie with arrest if he kept showing up or calling to complain about it. He also threatened Ollie with arrest if he were to take it upon himself to do anything about his crazy suspicions.

  After that, Ollie was pretty quiet. So quiet that Kaufman nearly forgot about him. Then he’d gotten the call from Ivan Renner earlier in the day.

  “Look, I don’t have any solid proof that he plans to do anything . . . problematic,” Renner said. “But what I just told you is exactly what he told me, and he wasn’t very happy when he said it. He didn’t get specific, only that he and his men were going to act.”

  “That’s good to know, Ivan. I’m glad you called. Did he happen to mention when they were going to—”

  “No, he didn’t say when. I’m really worried, sheriff, that he’s planning something . . . dangerous.”

  “Dangerous how?”

  “Well, let’s say that—um, you’re gonna have to humor me for a few minutes, okay?”

  “I humor you all the time, Ivan, you know that.”

  They both had a quick, nervous laugh.

  “Let me give you a hypothetical situation. Let’s say that Vendon Labs is doing some secret and shady work for the government up there in the old hospital.”

  Kaufman sighed. “Yeah, okay. Hypothetically. Let’s say that.”

  “And let’s say the work they’re doing is developing a new biological weapon.”

  “Oh, Christ. Are you serious? Are you trying to tell me that’s what they’re—”

  “I’m not telling you anything. This is just a hypothetical situation. I’m trying to make a point. Give me a chance, okay?”

  Another sigh. “All right.”

  “Ollie and his men storm the place to rescue the people he believes are being held captive there, and in the process, something goes wrong with this biological weapon they’re working on. In all the chaos, all the violence, maybe shooting—”

  “Yeah, okay, I get your point. And?”

  “Well . . . think about that for a second, sheriff. Ollie and his men, who knows what kind of damage they’d do with all their righteous indignation. Think about what could happen. And really, we don’t know what they’re doing in there, but if it’s—”

  “They’re developing antibiotics, goddammit! There’s no reason to think otherwise!”

  “What if I told you we have evidence to the contrary?”

  “I would say, ‘Again, Ivan?’”

  “Hey, at least I’ve always had evidence. You can’t say I haven’t. Just because you aren’t convinced by it doesn’t mean it’s not evidence.”

  “Look, Ivan, I’m glad you called about Ollie. I’ll keep that in mind. Maybe if I have time, I’ll swing by the hospital and make sure everything’s okay. But this other stuff—I just don’t have time for it right now, Ivan. I’ve got other things to do.”

  Then a few hours later, shortly before he left the station, while he was still trying to come up with an excuse to drive around looking for von Pohle’s car, Renner had called again.

  “When you dropped by Springmeier, didn’t you say it was Dr. Fara McManus who gave you the tour?”

  “Yes, that was the one. McManus. Why?”

  “I’ve got a recording of Dr. McManus talking about what they’re really up to in Springmeier.”

  “What they’re really—Jesus, Ivan, I don’t have time for this.”

  “You have to make time. Listen, we’ve had somebody in there for a while, and he’s been—”

  “Wait, in where?”

  “In Springmeier.”

  “I don’t understand, what do you mean?”

  “Somebody who works for me also works at Springmeier and he’s been gathering information for us about—”

  “A spy, you’ve got a spy in there? Is that what you’re saying? Jesus Christ, are you crazy? They could sue you. And win. What the hell do you think this is, Mission: Impossible? If I’d known that was what you were up to, I would have—”

  “Sheriff, you have got to let me finish. The guy who works for me sent me a recording tonight of Dr. McManus talking about what they’re really doing. She’s having a fit of conscience and she’s ready to go public. And, sheriff, they are experimenting on homeless people in there.”

  Kaufman opened his mouth to respond, but Renner just kept talking without giving him a chance to speak up.

  “You need to listen to this. I don’t know how good it’ll sound over the phone, but just listen to this, sheriff.”

  Then a woman was talking. Her voice was a bit tinny because he was listening to a recording over the phone. But the more he listened, the more familiar the voice sounded. Dr. McManus had a way of talking in a quick burst, then pausing, then talking in another quick burst. He recognized the rhythm, the cadence. And then he listened to what she was saying.

  A burning nausea settled into his stomach as he listened, and before long, he was afraid he would vomit up a bellyful of acid.

  Then Renner was saying, “Dr. McManus and my guy and everybody else in there are being held at gunpoint right now by Ollie and his men.”

  “What? Are you shitting me? We haven’t gotten any calls—”

  “They can’t call you, that’s why I’m calling you. It sounds like Ollie and his men have let out the test subjects.”

  “Test subjects? I don’t under—”

  “The homeless pe
ople infected with this virus.”

  For a moment, Kaufman felt like his chair was spinning around. Then he remembered something: He was talking to Ivan Renner, who was a nice guy, but who believed some pretty crazy things, and this might be one of them. Kaufman had listened to Renner’s show, he’d listened to his guests, and he knew that much of Renner’s information came from sources that were unreliable at best and crazy or creepy or both at worst. Renner himself might be convinced that the voice in that recording belonged to Dr. Fara McManus, but that didn’t necessarily mean it was, and Kaufman had to keep reminding himself of that fact.

  “What do you want me to do, Ivan?”

  “Do? Get some deputies up there and—”

  “I’ll drive by and take a look.”

  “What? You mean . . . by yourself ?”

  “Yes, by myself.”

  “Didn’t you hear what I just told you?”

  “Yes, I heard it. And I have no doubt you believe it. But let’s be honest, Ivan. You aren’t exactly a good horse to bet on at the moment, you know what I mean? We’re up to our eyes in trouble right now because of the hurricane and I’m not going to send a bunch of deputies to Springmeier just on your say-so. Your record so far just wouldn’t support it. Even in good weather. But I’ll take a look myself. If there’s a problem, I’ll call for backup. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m on my way out.”

  Now he made his slow way to Springmeier, taking a meandering route so he could search for von Pohle’s car. He’d called von Pohle’s home number to talk to his wife, hoping she’d know where he’d gone, but no one answered. Kaufman occasionally grabbed his radio mike and called for von Pohle. He never got a response.

  3

  It took a long time for all the noise to stop. After the initial explosion—what sounded like an explosion, anyway—shook the entire hospital, the extended sounds of collapsing, of something large falling apart, went on for a while, the crashing and banging and shattering sounds of destruction in progress. Fara backed into Emilio and pressed against him. She was trembling. He put his hands comfortingly on her shoulders, hoping she couldn’t tell that he was trembling, too.

  “One of those trees,” Fara said.

  Emilio leaned close to her ear and said, “What?”

  She turned her head toward him and said, “One of those huge oak trees outside. They’re as old as dirt. I think one of them fell into the building.” She pointed. “Sounded like the one on the western side.”

  The sounds of the storm seemed to be inside the old hospital now, echoing up and down its corridors, shoving on its doors. Emilio noticed the room suddenly felt colder.

  “If that’s what it was,” Emilio whispered, “sounds like it knocked the shit outta that side of the building.”

  “Yeah, I’m afraid that was a breach,” Ollie said. “Which means there may now be other ways for those people to get out of this building.” He turned to one of his men. “Leave a man on each exit, but get the rest together in the corridor intersection ASAP.”

  The man hurried out.

  Ollie turned to Emilio. “Are you gonna give me shit?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean if your only interest is to get us out of here without spreading this goddamned doomsday plague, I could use your help.”

  Emilio nodded. “Yeah, at this point, that’s my only interest.”

  “Can you shoot a gun?”

  “I’ve been to the range a few times.”

  Ollie turned to Craig, who’d been standing silently with them all night, and said, “You got a handgun you can give him?”

  The man removed his pistol from its holster and handed it to Ollie, who turned and offered it to Emilio.

  “Can you handle that?”

  “A Ruger? Sure.” Emilio took the gun.

  “We might need some muscle, too. Whatever happened out there, it sounds like a mess.” He glanced at Fara. “I think you’re right about that tree. I had a man in that tree, goddammit.”

  Ollie started to head for the door and Emilio began to follow him, but Fara’s hand clutched his elbow and pulled him back.

  “Don’t leave me here,” she whispered.

  “Well . . . I don’t think he’s gonna want you to come with us.”

  “Don’t go out there. I’m scared. I’m serious, Emilio, I’m very scared, I don’t feel safe in here.” She folded her arms across her stomach and looked at their masked guard, then at Ollie, then at Corcoran. “From anyone.” She moved close, pressed herself against Emilio, and he put an arm around her. “And that dead man on the floor over there keeps reminding me that we’re all in a pretty shitty situation. You know?”

  “Yeah, okay,” he said, turning to Ollie. “Look, I’m gonna stay here for now. If you really need my help with something, let me know, but right now, I don’t think I should leave her.”

  Ollie nodded once, then held out his hand. “In that case, give me the gun.”

  Emilio handed him the gun and Ollie handed it back to its owner. He looked at Fara but spoke to Emilio. “Is she sick?”

  “No, she’s just really upset. She’s been through a lot and—”

  Ollie barked an unpleasant laugh. “She’s been through a lot? Imagine what she’s been putting all those homeless people through, huh? Why don’t you imagine that for a minute or two?” Then he turned to Craig. “Come with me. We’re gonna need all the men we can get out there, I think.”

  “What about them?” the man asked.

  Ollie turned to Emilio, Fara, and Corcoran, who now sat in the chair behind Fara’s desk. “Where are you gonna go? There’s a storm outside and a bunch of crazy, virus-carrying people in here. Safest thing you could do would be to stay right here in this room.”

  Ollie and Craig left the office.

  Fara pulled away from Emilio, shaking her head. She spoke quietly, just above a whisper. “I couldn’t. I wanted to, but I couldn’t.”

  “Couldn’t what?”

  “Stop it. I tried. I reported him three times. I kept thinking I should leave, but I didn’t because I couldn’t. I couldn’t just walk away from this, I kept hoping I’d find a way to do something. What I did with you today, that recording—I should have done that months ago. Months ago. But I just . . . I was afraid of ruining my life, or something, of becoming this, this, I don’t know, public whipping post. My whole life plastered all over TV and the Internet.”

  “People will say you’re a hero, Fara,” he said.

  “Some might,” Corcoran said.

  They turned to see him sitting in Fara’s chair at her desk. He had his feet on the desk, ankles crossed, and he was leaning back in the chair, holding his cell phone to his right ear. He’d been a trembling wreck earlier, but now he appeared quite relaxed and comfortable. He was watching them with a smile. In the candlelight, the smile had a ghoulish appearance—the small mouth elongated and surrounded by the deep lines of Corcoran’s face. His glasses were pushed up on his forehead and his eyes, even in the poor light, were red and puffy and gleaming. But his smile was warm and cheerful and he sounded rather chipper when he spoke.

  “I’m making a call,” he explained, “and I’m on hold.”

  “Who are you calling?” Fara said.

  “An associate.” He kept smiling. “Look, some might say you’re a hero. For a while. You’d probably get a book deal right away, be on all the talk shows. Half the country would despise you and want to string you up, but you’d have those who say you’re a hero. Until they find out you’ve got real fur in your closet. Or that you like veal and foie gras. Or that you don’t like Lady Gaga, or some dumb thing like that. Until they find out you’re human. Then they’ll just throw you under the bus. Or worse!” he said, his eyebrows rising high up on his spacious forehead. “They’ll hand you over to the people who want to string you up!” Then he laughed loudly until his laughs became coughs and he had to drop his feet to the floor and sit up straight as he hacked and coughed and wheezed, still holding the phone t
o his ear. When it stopped, he took his glasses off his head, put them on the desk, and scrubbed a hand down his face. Then he put the glasses on his nose and pushed them back up on his forehead again. He chuckled quietly as he settled back in the chair and put his feet back up on the desk.

  “You seem awfully happy,” Fara said.

  Corcoran, still smiling, said, “Who, me? Well, Dr. McManus, if you’d taken the opportunity to get to know me during our time here, you would know that I am generally a happy person. I am optimistic, upbeat, and good-natured, and there’s very little that can get me down.”

  “Even this? A hurricane? A raid by a private militia? The discovery of your kidnapped human subjects, and the potential spread of the deadly virus you’ve created? To say nothing of a possible career-ending scandal that could land you in prison? None of that troubles you?”

  “I remain singularly untroubled.”

  “Well, that could be the drugs.”

  His smile opened and he laughed quietly. “You could be right.”

  “You’re wasted,” Fara said. She spoke quietly, but with contempt and anger. “Like some teenager. Completely wasted.”

  “I’d hate to be in this situation without some chemical assistance,” Corcoran said with a chuckle, “but I assure you I am quite sound.” He smiled at the ceiling.

  “How can you call yourself a scientist and do the things you’ve done here, conduct yourself the way you have, I mean, the drugs, the parties—”

  “Dr. McManus, I call myself a scientist precisely because I do the things I’ve done here. Your morals and your righteous indignation are admirable, but science does not share them, nor does it give a damn about them. You’re free to express them as long as you continue to allow me to do things that ultimately save lives. Possibly millions of lives.”

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t see any lifesaving being done with this virus.”