"ANALYSIS COMPLETE. SYMPTOM PROGRESSION SHOWS NO SIGNIFICANT CORRELATION TO ANY IDENTIFIABLE DEMOGRAPHIC FACTOR."
Benton sighed and rubbed his forehead in frustration. Nothing, he thought to himself. There is just nothing to explain what's going on. He shook his head, grinning somewhat bitterly to himself. Race had often said that one day his high-minded principles would be his undoing. Well, this time he might just be right.
Five years ago, when Smallwood had outlined his project and it's goals, Benton had been horrified. No matter how high-minded Smallwood's original intentions had been, his project was simply an exercise in mind control and Benton knew just how dangerous that could be. And then, he had been caught in that web and Darcy and his people had turned him against his own son. Cold chills shook him, even though the lab was comfortably warm. He had tried very hard to forget that episode. The realization that he had tried desperately to capture and possibly kill Jonny was almost more than he could stand. So, in the aftermath of that debacle and before anyone had the chance to realize what was going on, he had done something that was turning out to have been monumentally stupid. He had destroyed every shred of Smallwood's research.
He'd started in Darcy's industrial complex where the chips were manufactured, getting out just ahead of the police. From there, he moved to Smallwood's office. He burned all of Smallwood's research notes and had smashed every one of the chips he could lay his hands on. Evidently, he was more thorough than he'd thought, because from what both Burroughs and the British government told them, nothing survived. And what chips he hadn't destroyed, the townspeople of Wychford had. Their anger over being used as lab rats in Smallwood's experiments had been deep, and they had vented their fury on the hardware the man had created. When people began to get sick, there had been no research notes left to refer to, and Smallwood was already dead, killed by his own hand while still in jail.
It had left the doctors who struggled to save the dying population of the village with no source of reference from which to begin their search for a cure. And it was a deficit they were never able to make up. Unfortunately, Benton Quest was beginning to think it might just be a deficit he wasn't going to be able to overcome either. In the two days since Barbara had explained what was causing his inexplicable weakness, he had thrown himself into the problem with an energy he hadn't been able to muster in quite some time. But it was like beating his head against a brick wall. He was getting nowhere.
Sighing once more, he said, "Results of the symptom progression analysis shows no discernable pattern that can be correlated to any physical factor within the affected population. Initial indications of a correlation between age and sex to the duration of stage two symptoms turned out not to be of statistical significance, showing an overall standard deviation of less than .8375 from mean when hypotheticals were tested against data taken from the entire population."
"Have you taken to talking to yourself now?" Benton spun, startled by the unexpected voice. The last he knew, he was the only one in the lab. Barbara smiled and shoved away from the wall she was leaning against. "Race said I'd find you out here."
Benton chuckled. "I pretty much live out here these days."
"You should be getting some rest," she replied with a frown, as she crossed to sit down beside him at the computer console.
Benton shrugged and gestured at a cot that was set up against the far wall. "I rest when I'm tired. Believe me, Barbara, I'm not pushing it harder than I should. I can be bullheaded and stubborn sometimes, but I have the sense to realize that I'm not going to do myself any good if I keel over."
"Good. You're the key to finding a solution to this problem, Benton. We can't afford to have you go down on us."
He turned away from her and picked up some printouts that had been sitting next to him on the console. "Whatever's causing the problem seems to be exceedingly well masked. I've run every correlation I can think of and can't seem to find anything in the stage one symptoms that is a consistent indicator of the problem. There is a definite progression . . . sets of symptoms that mark stages in the advancement of the . . . . what do we call this, anyway? A disease? A disorder?"
"Illness," she replied quietly. "It's as good of a description as any."
"Illness," he agreed in the same tone. "There are definite stages in the advancement of the illness and each are marked by a specific set of symptoms. And for the most part, when you shift from one stage to the next, those symptoms that marked the earlier stage disappear. For example, in all cases, the onset of the illness appears to be marked by an increase in general anxiety. Acute discomfort with changes in environment, work patterns, that sort of thing . . ."
"Like evidence that your children are growing up."
Benton nodded. "Yes. How much of my reaction to Jonny and Hadji's getting older was caused by the illness and how much of it can be credited to the classic 'empty nest syndrome' is anyone's guess. But I'd say that at least part of my problem was the onset of the illness. But here's the weird part. In all cases, stage one of the illness is marked by three things . . . increasing anxiety, outward behavioral changes, and the bouts of weakness. But there's no rhyme or reason to how or when those three symptoms show up. Everyone showed signs of the anxiety first. In some cases, like mine for example, that anxiety grew and then spilled over into the behavioral changes . . . I began doing things that were out of character for me. Seriously out of character, I take it?"
The question made Barbara raise her eyebrows in surprise. "I'd say so, yes."
Benton nodded again and slid down in the chair stretching his legs out in front of him. Barbara was struck by how much he looked like his son at that moment. "From that point, the bouts of weakness began to set in, and I began exhibiting those three sets of symptoms with more and more regularity. But that's only one pattern of onset. It seemed to be unique for almost every individual suffering from the illness. One woman went for almost a year suffering from the anxiety and never showed any sign of any other symptoms. Then one day, she erupted in a fury, beat the hell out of her adult daughter with her fists, developed acute weakness by nightfall, and by dawn had run the entire gamut of remaining symptoms and lapsed into the coma from which she never woke. They thought another man never exhibited the anxiety stage at all. He appeared to develop the weakness first, suffered from that for about two months, then went from being loud and boisterous to be scared of his shadow, and declined from there."
"But I thought you said everyone suffered from the anxiety first," Barbara objected.
Benton smiled grimly. "They did. For a long time, he was the fly in the ointment, so to speak, of the researchers' data. He seemed to skew all of their results and they concentrated on him heavily, figuring that because he was different, he was likely to provide them with the key to unlock the puzzle. It wasn't until after he had died and his family from out of town began going through his things that they discovered that he had kept a journal. In that journal, they discovered that he had suffered from the severe anxiety for quite a while before he ever came forward."
"So all of the extra effort they spent trying to figure out what made him different was wasted," Barbara said in disgust. "Why didn't he just admit it to start with? He misdirected their efforts and that could have been the difference between people living and dying."
"Because he was a man that never asked for help from anyone. He was loud and outspoken and highly independent. It wasn't until the illness began to change his behavior patterns that he came forward at all. And then it was like pulling teeth to get any kind of information out of him."
"What a mess."
"Pretty much."
"But what about stage two symptoms? You said you'd begun concentrating on them now."
Benton nodded. "This is where the dizziness, blackouts, and loss of motor control began to show up. Again, there was no set pattern to the onset of symptoms. And stage three was marked by coma and eventual death."
"Are you making any headway at all?" she questioned hopefully.
He shrugged and stood up, crossing the room to put the printouts with a stack of others on a table against the wall. "Not really. I managed to more firmly pin down another symptom that they hadn't considered, but it hasn't gotten me any further than we were before. What I really need is Smallwood's research notes and/or one of those chips."
"And you said those don't exist any longer."
"No."
"What was the other symptom?"
Benton shrugged a second time, refusing to look at her. After a moment, he said reluctantly, "The memory begins to be effected. It appears that all memory disintegrates eventually, but the first to go are those events that were stored while under the influence of the chip itself. The next to go are the memories that are generated when the actual illness is running its course. Essentially, that means that you don't retain anything from that period of time. Then, those that were stored between the time the chip was removed and when the illness began to manifest, and finally those that were stored before contact with the chip. The researchers didn't realize that it was occurring because they assumed that the symptoms were cumulative . . . that the first stage symptoms continued into the second stage. They don't. So what they took to be behavioral changes and anxiety attacks during the second stage were, in many cases, the patient's reaction to loss of memories that shouldn't be missing. It's like Alzheimer's without the good and bad days. The speed with which the memories disappeared varied from patient to patient, but that's one progression that's consistent."
The silence between the two of them was pregnant. Finally, Barbara swallowed and said, "You mean you'll forget . . ."
"I already have no memory of what happened while the chip was installed. I remember the auto accident and being in Wychford. And I remember the meeting with Smallwood in his office where he told me about what he was attempting to do. But from there on, it's a blank. I know that I attacked Jonny, but only because both you and Race have told me that I did. Two weeks ago, I remembered it . . . now I don't. The memories start again with a searing headache and finding Jonny leaning over me in the van with the population of Wychford after us."
Barbara's mouth felt dry. She started to ask a question, but before she had the chance, Benton turned to her urgently. "Barbara, there's something I need to know . . . something I have to ask you . . . and I need for you to be honest with me."
"A-a-all right."
"Where are Jonny and Hadji?"
She stared at him in shock. "What?" she gasped, the pain in his face making her voice break.
"They're not here. Hadji's in school. Right?"
"Yes."
"I remember that . . . he and Kefira took mid-year admission to Columbia. But where is Jonny? He . . . isn't here . . . I've never known him to be gone when I'm . . . when there's trouble. Is he away at school, too?"
Barbara's throat closed up as she stared at him. Dear God, he doesn't remember any of it, she thought. He has no idea . . .
"What's the last thing you remember?" she asked carefully.
Benton sank down onto a chair and ran a shaking hand through his hair. "I-I'm not sure. I remember the firefight with Baxter's people last December. That seems to be intact, as does most everything before that. There . . . there may be some things missing, but I can't be sure. I also remember Hadji and Kefira leaving for Columbia . . . and Jonny and Jessie starting back to school here at the start of spring session. B-but after that . . . things begin . . . it's like . . . looking at a fractured mirror . . . there's just bits and pieces. Nothing makes any sense. I've tried so hard to sort it out, but I can't . . . it's like he's just not there!" He looked up at her in fear and desperation. "He's not . . . nothing h-happened, did it? He and Jessie aren't . . . dead . . . are they?"
She had been sitting next to him at the computer console, somehow rooted to the chair. Now, his anguish seemed to break the trance that held her and she leaned forward. Putting her arms around him, she hugged him reassuringly. "No, Benton! They aren't dead. I promise you."
For the briefest instant, she thought she felt him lean into her, seeking comfort. But then it was gone. He sat back and looked up at her. "Then where are they? Barbara, I need their help. I-I don't think I can do this alone."
Barbara caught his hands in hers and squeezed them gently. "Then we will get them here to help." With an effort, she smiled at him. "We've only been waiting for you to tell us that we can call them."
"I wouldn't let you?"
"No," she said gently.
He stared down at their joined hands for a moment and then looked back up at her again. "I won't remember this, you know. By tomorrow I'll have forgotten again. But for right now, I need to know. What's happened in the last nine months?"
Barbara sighed heavily and tried to steel herself for what she knew would be one of the most difficult conversations of her life. "All right. I'll tell you . . ."
Martha Evans looked up as the back door opened and Barbara Mason entered. She was struck by the pain evident in the woman's face. Barbara gave her a small smile. "Evening, Martha. How are you tonight?"
"Better'n you, obviously," she replied in her no-nonsense voice. "You look done in, deah."
"It hasn't been one of my better days," Barbara agreed despondently.
"When was the last time you had a decent meal? And I don't mean that nasty stuff you get at one of them drive through places."
"I don't know. But that's all right. I'm not really hungry . . ."
"Landsakes, girl, it's not all right. You, of all people, should know that!" She grabbed Barbara by the arm and led her to a stool at the kitchen bar. "Sit. I'll get you something."
"No, really, Martha," she protested. "If I could just have a cup of coffee . . ."
But before she could finish, Mrs. Evans had plunked a bowl full of a thick, steaming clam chowder down in front of her. "Eat!" the woman commanded. "In the mean time, I'll make fresh coffee. All that's here is that stuff Mr. Bannon makes and it can take rust off of nails." Mrs. Evans eyed her as she bustled around the kitchen. "You cannot let yourself get run down. Too many people depend on you. And right now, you're what's holdin' this family together. They've just been hit with too much all at once. They're lookin' to you to be the steady one in the midst of all the chaos."
"To tell you the truth, Martha, I'm not feeling very steady right now."
Mrs. Evans waved her hand negligently. "That's just an empty stomach talkin'. You get on the outside of that lot and you'll start feelin' better."
Reluctantly, Barbara picked up her spoon and scooped up a mouthful of the chowder. As she began to eat, she felt her eyes widen. She was starved! She ate ravenously until the older woman set a cup of coffee down in front of her. As she took a swallow from the steaming mug, she looked up to see Martha Evans staring at her. Mrs. Evans nodded her head sharply. "That's better. You're startin' to get some of your color back." Turning, the woman walked back across the kitchen to the sink where she began peeling potatoes.
As Barbara continued to eat, she asked idly, "So how's the family?" The sudden cessation of movement caused her to look at Mrs. Evans sharply. "Martha?"
"Jim and Donna aren't doin' so well right now," the older woman admitted reluctantly.
"Bobby?" Barbara asked gently. Mrs. Evans nodded wordlessly. "Have they found him yet?" This time she shook her head. Barbara rose and crossed to put an arm around her shoulders. "Then what's happened?"
"They got . . . a letter . . . from him," she said with difficulty. "From New York. Said he wasn't comin' back."
"Do they know where in New York?"
She shook her head again. "No. No return address . . . just a postmark."
"Did he say if Francesca was with him?"
This time, the woman turned to look at her and there was an angry glitter in her blue-gray eyes. "Yes, that little witch went with him. She's the cause of this! That boy was happy until that little she-devil came along."
Inwardly, Barbara sighed. She wasn't surprised at this. If anything, she'd been expecting it. Martha, Jim and Donna Evans could deny it all they liked, but the fact was that Francesca Hamilton was not the source of Bobby Evans' discontent. The young man had simply been biding his time for years, waiting for the chance to get out of Rockport. The accident that injured him so badly last December, coupled with the long recovery time, had been the last straw, and when the explosion finally came, it had been violent and devastating. Bobby had argued with his father and then turned on his twin brother, Matt. When the dust finally settled, Bobby had fled, taking Francesca Hamilton with him. The family and law enforcement agencies across the country had been searching for the pair ever since, but to no avail. It was as though they had dropped off the face of the earth. Privately, Barbara suspected they would never be found . . . not if they didn't want to be. Francesca was not the garden-variety teenage girl. She'd been raised in the art of subterfuge and deception, and Barbara thought it likely that she could hide the pair of them very effectively . . . probably provide for them too. She just hoped that they would have the sense to see to it that Bobby got the continued health care he needed. He was a long way from fully recovered.
"I'm sorry, Martha. I know this has been difficult for all of you."
"It's Matthew I'm worried about," Mrs. Evans replied. "He blames himself for this . . . says he pushed Bobby to it with that business over Marla Dawson."
"He did no such thing. His actions with Marla have always been nothing but honorable. Bobby was angry and frustrated when the two of them fought. I'm sure that he's sorry about it."
Mrs. Evans gestured helplessly. "I know. Bobby even said so in the letter. But Matthew just doesn't believe it. And the girl still doesn't know how he feels. He won't tell her."
"You know, Martha, I've decided that being young stinks. You couldn't pay me enough to go back to being 18 again!"
For a second, the woman's pained expression didn't change. Then, a smile flickered. "Can't say I'd want to do it, either. Seems to me life was simpler when we were that age."
Barbara laughed and returned to her dinner. "I doubt it. I think we just don't remember it." The two women settled back into comfortable silence as Barbara finished eating quickly, then carried her dishes over to the drain board and refilled her coffee cup. "You know where Race and Estella are?"
Mrs. Evans raised her eyes toward the ceiling. "Up in their bedroom upstairs. They've been together most of the afternoon. She's been tryin' to convince him to cancel the appointment with the doctor in Portland tomorrow."
"She can't do that!" Barbara exclaimed. "She needs to see Dr. Eftekari."
"I know. But with Dr. Quest not being well, she feels that she needs to be here, and she's afraid that doctor won't let her come home again."
Barbara shook her head. "Having her collapse on us is the last thing we need right now. I better go talk to both of them. Thank you for the chowder, Martha. It was wonderful, as usual, and it was exactly what I needed."
"You just remember to talk care of yourself. Now go on, before that firebrand up there convinces her man to let her stay here."
Taking her coffee with her, Barbara climbed the stairs quickly and headed for Estella's room. As she approached, she heard Race's voice drift down the hall.
"I understand how you feel, but I don't see how we can take the risk."
"We've been through this before, Race," Estella replied patiently. "My condition is stable right now. Barbara herself says that all of the indicators show that the problem hasn't increased in recent days. As long as I stay in bed and don't push it, I seem to be doing fine. Stability is what he really needs right now, and if we see that doctor and he decides to keep me in Portland, that goes straight out the window."
"Yes, and what if you take a sudden turn for the worse? Portland is too far away to get to quickly. We could lose both you and the baby, and that's an unacceptable risk. Benton understands that. He wouldn't want you to stay and jeopardize your health."
Barbara heard Estella sigh. "It's more than just Benton. Race, you and Barbara have been catching the brunt of this entire situation. And I don't just mean my pregnancy. There's Benton's illness and the added work because the kids are gone. And then there's also the situation with Jonny and Jessie. Race, you can't hide things from me . . . not anymore. The estrangement of those kids has hurt you a lot. I can see it. The fact that none of them will trust you, that you can't keep tabs on them and know that they're safe. It's been hard for you."
"For you, too."
"Yes, but not like it has been for you. Not only are you separated from your daughter, but there's also Jonny and Hadji. Those two boys are like sons to you. It hurts you just as much to be on the outs with them as with Jessie. And then to ask you to split your time . . . to make a choice about which of us needs you the most at a time like this? Look, Benton has to stay here. He needs the lab to find a cure for his illness. If they hospitalize me in Portland, you're going to be torn between the two of us, and I don't want to be the cause of that . . . not if it isn't necessary. And right now, it isn't."
"I have a better solution," Barbara said, stopping in the doorway.
Race turned, relief written all over his face. "Thank God! I need one."
"Bring the kids home."
"But Benton said . . ." Estella began, but Barbara stopped her with a shake of her head.
"Benton has changed his mind. He wants them here."
"What's happened," Race asked quietly. He held up a hand, forestalling Barbara's automatic protest. "I see it in your face, Barbara. What is it?"
She sighed softly and sank down into the chair. "The illness has definitely moved into the second stage and he's recognizing that he needs help . . . research help."
"It's more than that," he said flatly.
"Yes," she admitted reluctantly. "The illness is beginning to effect his memory. He's forgetting things . . . says it's progressive."
"Burroughs' notes don't say anything about that," Estella protested.
"Benton says that they misinterpreted some of the illness' progression, attributing the apparent confusion to stage one symptoms that weren't effecting the patients any longer." She smiled with difficulty. "The upside is that we shouldn't have to put up with any more temper tantrums."
"How bad?" Race asked her.
She was silent for a long moment and then shook her head slowly. "Bad. He pretty much has no memory of the last nine months or so. He . . . he asked me where Jonny and Jessie were. He doesn't remember anything that happened in March at all . . . or any of the subsequent events. And he's copiously annotating his research files because anything he does now he doesn't retain for more than a few hours." A pained look flashed across her face. "I just explained the situation with Jonny and Jessie, but he won't remember any of it in the morning."
"Dear God," Estella breathed softly.
Race rose swiftly. "I'll get them here," Race said grimly, "one way or the other."
Estella watched as he disappeared out the door and a few seconds later, they both heard him descending the stairs. "It will be a relief to have them home," she said. Estella stared at Barbara as she nodded silently. "Are you all right?" she asked.
The dark-haired woman gestured vaguely. "I suppose I have no other choice." She stared down at her hands, which lay limply in her lap. Finally, she looked up and Estella felt her gut clench at the grief in her face. "He's so scared, Estella. I can see it in his eyes. The idea that he was sick . . . that he might die from it . . . that didn't frighten him. But the idea that his mind is going . . . that he can't remember what happened from one day to the next . . . it has him terrified. You should have seen him when I told him about what he had done in March. I tried to gloss over it, but he could tell I wasn't being completely honest and kept at me . . . made me tell him everything that's happened. I kept reminding him that it was the illness that made him do those things, but . . . "
"Benton's never been one to accept excuses for poor behavior, no matter how good the reason," Estella replied. "Not in other people, not in himself, and especially not when that behavior is directed at any of the kids."
"He'll ask again. I know he will. He won't remember this conversation and sooner or later, he'll ask. I honestly don't know if I can bear having to tell him about it again."
"No, he won't," Estella replied quietly. "He'll never ask any of us again. Benton is a scientist, Barbara. Documentation and methodology are an ingrained habit. I have no doubt that IRIS is monitoring everything that goes on in the lab right now, including your explanation. He'll see to it that a tape of the explanation is there when he needs to be reminded."
Race stabbed the disconnect button on the phone. Where the hell are they? Race thought in irritation. He'd started with Jonny and Jessie, knowing that Jessie finished classes early on Monday afternoons. Not only had he not raised anyone at their apartment, he wasn't even able to leave a message. Evidently, they had turned off the machine, because it wouldn't pick up. He'd tried Hadji next and, much to his surprise, ran into the exact same problem. He frowned, as he leaned forward and flipped open an address book that lay on Benton's desk in the study. A sense of uneasiness fluttered in his stomach. Ruffling through the pages quickly, he found the number he wanted and had just begun to dial when a soft tapping on the door caused him to look up.
"Come on in, Barbara," he said with a wave.
"Any luck?" she asked, settling into the chair across the desk from him.
"Not yet. I've tried both of the boys with no results and now I'm in the process of trying Kefira. You know, I'm starting to appreciate the way Benton feels. You can never reach any of them when you need them." He listened as the phone began to ring steadily in his ear.
Barbara laughed a little. "They're all busy. Seems strange to think of them having their own lives that you know nothing about, doesn't it?"
"Yes, it does. I'm sure we'll all get accustomed to it eventually." The phone rang for the fifth time and suddenly cut off abruptly. Race removed the phone from his ear and frowned at it, the uneasiness growing.
"What is it?" Barbara questioned.
"I can't get through to any of them. It's almost like all of them turned off their machines at the same time."
Barbara frowned in concern. "That's not like them. Even if Jessie and Jonny are still angry at Benton, I can't see Hadji and Kefira shutting down, as well."
"I can't see Jonny and Jessie doing it, no matter how angry they were. They both know Benton's not well. I don't like this one bit."
For a moment, Barbara hesitated. Then she gestured for the phone. "Give that to me." Race handed the phone over and Barbara dialed quickly. Then she handed it back. "Put it on speaker," she directed him. Race raised an eyebrow at her, but did as she asked. Suddenly, the line clicked loudly and a male voice answered.
"Jon Quest's desk."
"May I speak to Jon, please," Barbara replied.
There was the briefest hesitation and then the man replied, "I'm sorry, but Jon isn't available at the moment. Can someone else help you?"
"No, this is a personal matter. When do you expect him?"
"I really can't say. You'd need to check with his supervisor and he's not available at the moment."
"I see. Would it be possible for you to leave a message for Jon?"
"Certainly."
"Please tell him that Dr. Mason called, and that it's urgent that Race or I talk with him just as soon as possible. Tell him that it's an emergency and that we can be reached at his father's house." Both of them could hear the person on the other end rummaging through paper as though searching for something.
"Hold on just a second. I can't find a pen. Ah, got it. Okay. Dr. Mason, you said, right?"
"Yes. Or Race Bannon."
"Bannon. Got it. And he's to call either of you at his father's house as soon as possible."
"Yes."
The individual hesitated. "I don't remember seeing him at work today. Did you try him at home?"
"Yes. We didn't get an answer and there appears to be a problem with his machine. We weren't able to leave a message."
"Okay. I'll see if I can track him down and get the message to him. I'll also let his supervisor know that you're trying to reach him."
"Thank you. Can I ask your name?"
Again, they heard that brief hesitation and then the man replied, "Blake."
"Thank you, Blake. I really appreciate it."
"No problem. We'll try to get him back to you as quickly as we can."
Another click signaled the end of the call. Race reached out and turned off the speaker. Leaning back, he looked at Barbara with a shuttered expression. "Jonny's work place?"
"Yes."
"You talk to him there a lot, I take it."
"Why do you say that?"
"Because you knew a ten digit, out-of-state phone number from memory without giving it a second thought."
Barbara was quiet for a long moment, returning Race's look evenly. Finally, she replied, "Yes, I talk to him regularly. I had Benton's permission to keep both of the boys up to speed on his condition. I generally talk to both of them at least once a week, and it's usually easier to get Jon at work than it is to catch him at home." She sighed at his blank expression. "I'm so sorry, Race. I know how hard this has been for you. It's not fair. You've done nothing to merit being excluded."
The blank expression finally broke as his shoulders slumped slightly and he gave her a pained smile. "Guilt by association. Kefira and Hadji called it clear back in April." He shrugged. "What can you do?"
She leaned forward and reached for his hand reassuringly. "Just hold on a little longer. When Jon and Jessie realize that it was the illness that caused Benton's behavior, things will improve. Particularly once we find a cure for what ails him."
Race frowned slightly. "I sincerely hope you're right."
To be continued . . .
