314 Book 3 (Widowsfield Trilogy) (21 page)

“Aw fuck,” said Jacker. “You hit him so hard he bashed the back of his head into my lip.” He dropped the unconscious attacker and the stranger slumped to the floor. Then he put his hand over his bleeding lip as he winced.

“He stabbed Rosemary,” said Paul, unconcerned with
Jacker’s minor injury.

“What?” asked
Jacker. “Holy shit. I didn’t even realize. Oh fuck.”

“No!” Alma shouted in reaction to something Michael had done.

Paul and Jacker looked over at her, uncertain what had happened. They saw that Alma had grabbed the pistol off the dresser, and Paul realized that Michael had tried to get to it during the commotion.

“You stay there,” said Alma as she pointed the gun at her father.

Rosemary was on her back, on the bed, with her hands gripping the knife that was lodged in her stomach. She was breathing hard, and groaning in pain as she cried. Michael was on the other side of the bed with a wicked grin as he looked at his daughter. Paul wasn’t certain what to deal with first, so he tapped Jacker’s arm and then pointed at Rosemary. “Help her. Wrap the wound, but don’t pull the knife out.”

“Oh fuck, dude. No,” said
Jacker. “I’m not…” He was blinking rapidly and shaking his head. “I’m not good with blood.”

Paul slapped his friend and then snapped his fingers in front of his face. “Get over it. She needs your help.”

Jacker took several deep breaths and nodded before moving to Rosemary’s side. He had to step over the unconscious man on the floor as Paul closed the door and then focused on Michael. Paul walked over to Alma, who was still pointing the pistol at her father. He reached out, expecting her to hand over the gun, but she kept it gripped tightly with both hands. Her knuckles were turning white as she squeezed, and the barrel was wobbling as she pointed it at the man that had caused her so much pain.

“I’ll take the gun, babe,” said Paul, but she didn’t hand it over.

Alma slipped her finger over the trigger, and stared down the quivering barrel. “You piece of shit.”

Michael had his hands up, and his grin had faded. He scowled, and shook his head while saying, “You don’t want to do this, kid.” He looked at Paul, desperate, and said, “Take the gun from her, man. Take the fucking gun from her.”

“Babe, give me the gun,” said Paul as he put his hand over hers.

She jerked her hand away from him and sneered as she aimed. “I kept my mouth shut all these years, you piece of shit.”

“Baby,” said Michael. “Alma, sweetie, come on. Put the gun down.”

“All those things you did…” Alma’s words were accented by a lifetime of pain and anger. Her eyes were wet with tears, and she stared at her father with intense hatred. Her pupils were pinpricks, each focused solely on the man she’d fantasized about kicking out of her life in whatever way she could.

“I never wanted to hurt you, kid. I never wanted to…”

“Alma, give me the gun,” said Paul as Michael pleaded for his daughter’s mercy.

Alma ignored Paul as she focused on her father. She asked, “You never wanted to what? Go ahead and finish. Go ahead and tell them what you did.”

“I never hurt you,” said Michael. “I loved you.”

Alma let out a quick laugh just as a tear fell down her cheek. “Is that right?”

“Alma,” said Paul, “please give me the gun.”

“Don’t kill him,” said Rosemary. Her voice was plagued by her pain, and she spoke through clenched teeth. Jacker was standing over her with his head turned to the side as he breathed in and out quickly. The large man’s face had turned pale, and his brow was dotted with emerging beads of sweat. It was clear that he was fighting off unconsciousness as Rosemary’s wound continued to pump blood. Jacker had taken the cover off one of the pillows and wrapped it around the blade that was stuck in Rosemary’s gut, but the formerly white fabric had become sodden with brilliant red blood.

“Not here,” said Rosemary. Paul noticed that she’d taken off one of her beaded necklaces and was gripping it like a dying Catholic might clutch a rosary. “You can’t kill him here.”

“Why not?” asked Alma, never taking her eyes off the man she was considering murdering.

“You need him.” Rosemary was forced to speak in quick gasps as the pain from her wound gripped her. “Take him with us.”

“I don’t need him.”

“Yes you do,” said Rosemary. “As a
sacri…” she groaned in pain as Jacker pulled the pillowcase away to replace it with a new one. He apologized profusely as he slung the bloodied case to the side.

“As a what?” asked Paul of
Rosemary. “Why do we need him?”

“As a sacrifice,” said Rosemary.

Widowsfield

March 14
th
, 1996

Oliver did his best to alter the room so that it resembled how it had looked 53 years earlier. The lead curtain had been removed, as well as the metal track that it had hung from. He expected to get contacted by angry members of The Accord that had been remotely monitoring the experiment after he took down the cameras, but no emails were sent, and no calls received. Oliver hoped that Vess had spoken directly with The Accord, and that he wasn’t doing this against their wishes.

As he’d warned
Vess, the stopgap mechanism that contained the radioactive material couldn’t be moved. Oliver had spoken with their lead engineer, who laughed off the request before explaining that it would be impossible to change without several months of work, and that even if it could be done, he wouldn’t do it. Exposing anyone to those levels of radiation would certainly kill them. Oliver decided not to argue that Vess hadn’t succumbed to radiation poisoning. It wouldn’t have mattered even if he convinced the engineer to do as he requested. They didn’t have time to make the necessary changes.

It had been a long night, and Oliver hadn’t gotten more than a couple hours of sleep. He was too excited to slow down, and too nervous to relax. He’d been working for
Cada E.I.B. for almost a decade, and had been chosen for this project based on his experience managing other, less important projects for the company. His expertise wasn’t in science, or engineering, or any other skill that would seem to be of importance for this position. Instead, Oliver was chosen based on his ability to follow directions and to manage other people.

The process of securing his job had been a lengthy one. It began with a simple application for a project lead position that was offered to all of the managers in
Cada E.I.B. throughout the world. Hundreds applied, and those selected were advanced to the next stage of the hiring process. Oliver and those that advanced were given extensive written and oral tests to determine personality identifiers, and this helped to whittle the group down further. After an interview process, Oliver and a select few other managers were flown to Spain to meet with members of the board, also known as The Accord.

The Accord was made up of acclaimed scientists and scholars. They met quarterly and were presented with project reports and proposals from the various arms of the company. During this process, The Accord decided which projects would be ceased or continued, as well as what new projects would be funded. They also chose the managers for each of the projects, and Oliver was asked to perform an interview with the group to prove he was the right person for the upcoming job. He’d never been more nervous in his life.

Apparently he impressed them, because a month after coming home he was contacted about taking over the Widowsfield project. However, the offer came with a high cost. When they revealed what he would have to do to earn the position, he understood why so many of the previous tests in the interview process had included such personal information. The representative of The Accord explained that Oliver would have to leave his entire life behind if he was going to take on the Widowsfield project. He would never be allowed to communicate with his family again. It was as if he was being placed in a Witness Protection Program. While Oliver didn’t mind leaving most of his life behind, he was given the chance to go visit his family before making any decision.

His final visit home had been predictably disastrous. His mother had been an uncaring, distant woman his entire life. She was petty and vindictive, and never had a nice thing to say about anyone. Her self-worth seemed to come from demeaning others, which she did with aplomb. His father had left years ago, and hadn’t bothered keeping in touch with his children other than hit-or-miss holiday calls. Oliver’s only regret was leaving his little brother,
Frank, behind. But Frank had a family of his own, and was doing well for himself. He didn’t need Oliver looking after him anymore. Oliver stayed at Frank’s house the final night of his trip, and the brothers shared beers on the porch, recalling the scant good memories of their time under the watch of their domineering mother. When Oliver said goodbye, he knew he would never see Frank again, but he was confident his brother would be fine without him.

After Oliver agreed to take the job as the manager of the
Widowsfield Project, The Accord provided him with tickets to Utah for another vacation. He would never go, and was instead sent to Missouri to start work. His family received the unfortunate news that Oliver’s small, two-seat Cessna had crashed in a Utah state park, and that his remains had been savaged by animals before authorities were able to retrieve them.

Oliver watched the news reports about his death, and marveled at the length to which The Accord had gone to make it believable. While the majority of Oliver’s body was reportedly charred or missing, authorities had been able to retrieve enough personal effects to declare him dead.

That had been three years earlier, and since then Oliver worked tirelessly to appease The Accord. Now the result of his labor was at hand, and his heart raced as he continually checked his watch while enduring the excruciatingly long wait until 3:00.

The sound of the door opening startled him, and he looked up in excitement.
Vess came in alone and waved down to him as he said, “Hello, Oliver.”

“Hi,” said Oliver before he motioned around the room. “We worked all night to get this place looking as close as possible to how it did in 1943.”

“I see,” said Vess as he began the arduous trip along the catwalk and to the stairs.

“We couldn’t do anything about the stopgap,” said Oliver as he pointed to the orange box that sat beside the
CORD. “I asked Jim if he could remove it, but he said it’d take months. He also said that the stopgap is tied to the flow of electricity, to make sure the CORD doesn’t cut out if something happens to its power source. So there’s no getting rid of that thing.”

“That’s disappointing,” said
Vess. “But we’ve run out of time to argue about it now.” He took each step slow and carefully. “But there’s something else in this room that will need to get out before we get started.”

“What’s that?” asked Oliver as he looked around the room. He thought they’d been thorough, and was curious what else
Vess wanted to be taken out.

The elderly man pointed at Oliver and said, “You.”

“Me? Why?” Oliver asked as if offended. “I thought that I…”

“You thought wrong,” said
Vess as he reached the bottom of the stairs. “There’ll only be two people in this room when we activate the device, and it’ll be the same two people that were here the first time.”

“Wait,” said Oliver. He was both confused and frustrated as he learned that he wouldn’t be there to witness the result of the work he’d been a part of for the past few years. “Who else will be here?”

“The CORD is a magnificent machine,” said Vess as he approached, relying heavily upon a cane. “But there’s a cog missing in your monster, Oliver.”

“I don’t understand.”

Vess passed Oliver and got to the CORD. He placed his hand against the smooth metal where the door was hidden, and then lifted the latch to open it. Oliver had known of the compartment within, but had assumed it was only meant as an access area for the mechanical components within the walls. Vess smiled as he opened the door and then motioned inside as if offering its contents to Oliver. “Your monster has no heart, Dr. Frankenstein.” He knocked on the side of the machine, causing a hollow thump. Oliver looked within, but saw nothing.

“
Vess, I’m sorry,” said Oliver as he shook his head. “I don’t understand what you’re talking about.”

“I never told you why I was chosen to participate in the original experiment,” said
Vess. “It certainly wasn’t for my scientific acumen.” He chuckled and shook his head. “I was no fan of what science was up to back then, at least not the conventional sort. Men were obsessed with bombs, and guns, and all manner of things to kill one another with. My work, on the other hand, was of an all-together different nature.”

Vess
stared into the CORD, studying its belly for a moment before continuing, “I was the successor of a man whose name has been criminally forgotten over the years: Dr. Duncan MacDougall. He proved that when we die, we lose approximately 21 grams of weight.”

“I’ve heard of that before,” said Oliver. “You worked on that study?”

“No,” said Vess. “I was only a child when he was doing his work. I was involved in experiments that sought to expand upon what MacDougall had discovered. We were trying to find what caused the weight loss. Our best theory was that it was an unidentified energy of some sort.”