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Jordan’s psyche is mangled and
distorted, like a thousand threads all knotted together. My brain struggles to sort out his thoughts and memories, picking through the most lucid of them. My mind lines most of them up into a somewhat comprehensible pattern.

From the time Jordan Cummings was six-years-old, he knew he was special. He had a knack for science and chemistry. His father pushed him to go to medical school, but after two years Jordan dropped out to join the Marines. America was embroiled in another war in the Middle East, and he felt obligated to do his part. His father said he was wasting his talent, so after the war Jordan returned to school and barely managed to get a degree. After a failed marriage and a series of dead-end jobs, he asked his old war buddy, Beto Ortiz, for help and was hired on at Rawley Pharmaceutical when it was nothing more than a sprouting drug manufacturer. He was assigned to work in one of the development labs as an assistant to Gregory Stark.

Meanwhile, Alberto Ortiz quickly rose through the management ranks of the company, but he maintained his friendship with his fellow Marine. They’d make a point to go out for drinks on occasion, and sometimes Stark would even tag along.

It was on one of these occasions that Stark flapped his tongue a bit more than he should have. In his research, he had isolated a variable that affected the production of dopamine and serotonin in the brain. Those who presented this variable inevitably developed mental illness in one form or another. All of the illnesses, he proposed, were on the same linear path. In other words, depression, schizophrenia, Alzheimer’s were all symptoms of the same basic problem, just differing degrees of it. The cure, he insisted, was to be found not in treating the symptoms, but in repairing the neural damage. And that could be achieved through injections of a new isotope he’d engineered in the lab.

It all sounded fantastic, and the three men congratulated each other and downed their beers. In a few years, a decade at most, Stark’s discovery would make Rawley the world’s leading medical research company and would make all of them very, very rich.

But then something happened that sent their world into a tail spin. Alberto had an affair with a member of the secretarial staff, which was not unusual for him. Only this time, he claimed to love the girl. There was only one problem; Jackie Beitner suffered from Bipolar disorder. One day she’d be pleasant, fun and affectionate, the next she’d explode like an atomic bomb, cursing and breaking things. Then she’d apologize in tears. Life was an emotional roller coaster, but Alberto loved her just the same. He convinced Stark to try out his new therapy on her. Stark hadn’t even reported his findings to the company yet, but after a great deal of coaxing on Alberto’s part, Stark agreed. After only a couple of weeks, Jackie showed marked improvement in her condition. Jordan and Stark decided to try it out on a few more test subjects without Alberto’s or the corporation’s knowledge. Unapproved trials were unconventional, but once they had collected proof of the isotope’s success, they would be hailed as geniuses.

The first few months went well, but then, one by one, the test subjects developed complications: seizures, memory loss and headaches. They were all diagnosed with grade four Glioblastoma. The tumors were embedded so deep inside the brain tissue they were deemed inoperable. Jackie Beitner was no exception.

To make matters worse, Jackie announced to Alberto that she was pregnant.

During that last month of the pregnancy, Stark and Jordan watched helplessly as each test subject died. When Jackie finally gave birth, the child was adopted by Alberto and his wife, who had no idea of the child’s true identity. Jackie died shortly after.

Two days after Jackie’s death, Gregory Stark broke. He had agreed to help her, thought he could make a difference, but now he found himself responsible for at least a half-dozen deaths. They’d all signed affidavits swearing them to secrecy. The treatments were administered under the table at no cost to them. None were ever aware of the others, or of the connection between their illness and the treatments, and none ever broke their silence. But it was too much for Stark. He would go to the authorities and turn himself in. He would do the right thing.

Jordan argued with Stark. If word of this got out it would mean tens of millions of dollars in lawsuits against Rawley Pharmaceutical. Not only would they lose their jobs, they would go to prison. Stark didn’t care. The guilt clawed at him from the inside out. Frantic, Jordan’s mind raced with all the possible outcomes his confession could have—none were good.

It was easy slipping the pills into Stark’s drink, and later that night his car rolled eight times before coming to rest at the bottom of a steep embankment, crushed like a
soda can. In the morning, Jordan got a call from Alberto telling him the news of Stark’s tragic death. Alberto believed it was a suicide—couldn’t blame him, after all. Losing both Stark and Jackie so close together, Alberto considered doing the same. But now he had Jackie’s little girl to watch over. She gave him a reason to live.

After Stark’s death, Jordan was promoted to his position. Eventually, Stark’s original formula was granted approval. In time, Rawley perfected the therapy and christened it Gaudium. The company went on to international fame and fortune with their cures. Alberto decided to go into politics, asking Jordan to help him. Jordan proved to be instrumental in navigating the political arena. Everything was going well until the investigation went public. Now Alberto and Jordan’s futures were both at stake.

When Mama started talking about Jackie the night of the fundraiser, Jordan feared she had put two and two together. With Papa’s gubernatorial race in full swing, a divorce would prove fatal. On the other hand, public sympathy for a devoted husband and father might sway public opinion in his favor.

That night, in my parents’ room, Jordan slipped some of Mama’s Trazodone and insulin into his pocket. He put a few pills into Mama’s drink and injected her with insulin, the combination that resulted in her coma. But a new complication arose when I became suspicious.

When I tracked down the Beitners, Jordan knew things were about to go terribly wrong. I claimed that when I touched people, I could read their minds. He’d never bought into it before. He thought I must have mental issues, like my birth mother. But now Jordan wasn’t so sure. What if it
was
true? If I could read Mama’s mind, and if Mama had any knowledge of Papa’s affair with Jackie Beitner, then it would only be a matter of time before I connected Jackie to Jordan as well.

The answer was to get rid of Mama—and me.

Here, Jordan’s mind again becomes distorted and twisted, like someone has taken a roll of movie film and scrunched it up into a giant knot of images. It’s as if he isn’t exactly sure what he’s thinking and feeling. I see nothing but rage and a tenacious appetite for control. Is this what being crazy—truly crazy—looks like from the inside out?

My eyes lock on Jordan’s, dark and menacing. The images and emotions are turbulent, difficult to decipher, but in that fraction of an instant I know one thing for certain.

I have to run.

I
spin away from Jordan
and take off running down the hall.

“Mira!” Jordan shouts, his rapid footsteps echoing behind me on the tile floor. “Mira, come back here!”

I have to find someone, anyone, and tell them—what? That the future governor’s best friend is some sort of mad scientist hell bent on doing everything he can to get what he wants—even if it means killing innocent people? Who would believe it? I can hardly believe it myself.

The most obvious place for me to go is back into the conference room, but Jordan’s right behind me. If I stop now he’ll reach me before I can get my hand around the doorknob.  I’ll call David’s cell—Crap! My pockets are empty. I’ve left my stupid cell at home as usual.

I run down the corridor toward the main section of the hospital. When I turn a corner at full speed, I suddenly collide with a woman coming from the opposite direction. In a pale green pantsuit and heels, she looks as surprised to see me as I am to see her.

“Dr. Walsh?”

“Mira!”

“What are you doing here, Dr. Walsh?”

She hesitates. “I’m meeting a friend for breakfast at the cafeteria.” The smile she offers is pleasant, but she averts her gaze. “I heard on the news that your father’s holding a press conference. Has it started yet?”

“No. I mean, yes, but I need to get help—”

“Help? Why?”

“There’s a man chasing me—I need to call security!”

Dr. Walsh takes me by the shoulders and looks at me with patronizing concern. “You know, Mira, I’m glad I bumped into you. I was planning to call you later, you know, to make sure you’re all right. When I heard about your mother, I was naturally worried—”

A cold finger of fear stabs my chest. “Who told you about my mother?”

“I did.” Jordan steps up behind me. “Hello, Emma.”

Leaning past me, he kisses Dr. Walsh’s cheek. I recoil at seeing them together—an image somehow not unfamiliar to me. My brain ransacks Jordan’s jumbled memories and finds what I failed to notice before: a business card, phone calls, discussions about me. I see other things, too, impressions too strange to be real. Dreams maybe—or nightmares?

“Mira—” Dr. Walsh’s voice slices through Jordan’s psyche, bringing me back to the present. “Mira, are you okay? I know losing your mother is a horrible tragedy, but it isn’t your fault,” she says. “Mr. Cummings called me because he’s worried about you. He’s afraid you might be having another breakdown.”

“I’m not having a breakdown! Dr. Walsh, please listen to me. Jordan is not who you think he is.”

“Why don’t you just calm down, Mira.” Jordan’s voice is now calm, filled with fake concern. “Do you see what I mean, Emma?”

“He’s a murderer!” I shout. “People have died!”

Dr. Walsh’s eyes narrow, studying mine. She believed me once. Would she believe me now?

Jordan snatches my arm in a vise-like grip. “I think you need to sit down, Mira. We can talk about this in private, all right?”

“Let me go!”

He turns me back toward the conference room and practically drags me down the corridor. His hold on me is so tight that my fingers throb from the constriction of blood flow.

“Please, Dr. Walsh!” I try to jerk myself free to no avail.

“Stop wriggling!” Jordan snaps.

Through the closed conference room doors I hear a man’s voice over the PA system declaring what everyone has already heard: Alberto Ortiz has been cleared of all charges.

When we reach the elevator, Jordan presses the recall button. A bell sounds as the elevator doors slide open, and he shoves me inside.

“Wait!” Dr. Walsh slips into the elevator after us. She gives Jordan a cautious, chastising glance. “I’ll go with you, if you don’t mind,” she says.

When the doors close, Jordan lets go of me. I rub my arm to get the circulation flowing again.

“Where are you taking me?”

His glare is cold. “Up,” he says.

I
’m pretty sure this elevator
is the one I’ve seen leading to the upper levels of the Rawley wing of the hospital. The numbers near the elevator ceiling light up one at a time. We reach the fifth floor, one of the partially completed levels of the building. The moment the doors open, Jordan shoves me out onto the bare concrete floor. I land on my hands and knees, reopening several of the cuts on both palms.

“Jordan, please!” says Dr. Walsh. “There’s no need to treat her this way.” She kneels beside me to inspect my hands, but despite her kindness, fear bubbles up inside me.

We’re surrounded by stacks of drywall and rolls of insulation that look like cotton candy wrapped in silver paper. Wooden wall frames have been erected, making the area look like a three dimensional labyrinth. PVC and copper piping are visible in some of the framework, plumbing for future installations of bathrooms and drinking fountains. Bouquets of colored electrical wires sprout from the ceiling and walls.

Dr. Walsh forages in her purse and pulls out a clean white tissue, dabbing at my cuts. “Jordan, you asked me to come here to help you with Mira. We’re all here now, so we might as well get this settled.”

Over Dr. Walsh’s shoulder I watch as Jordan looks around, paying no heed to her words. His gaze stops on a coil of electrical wire tossed haphazardly nearby. He picks it up and unwinds about a yard of it, then turns toward us with a jerk.

“Dr. Walsh, look out!”

But it’s too late. Before either of us can do anything to stop him, Jordan slips the wire over Dr. Walsh’s head, tightening it around her neck. She doesn’t even have time to scream. She struggles futilely for breath as the wire cuts into her skin.

“What are you doing?” I scream. “Stop!”

I lunge at him. My nails dig into the flesh of his hands as I try to pry open his fingers. He lets go only long enough to push me off. My back hits the floor, sending a shudder of pain down my spine. I roll to my side, ready to pounce on him again, but Dr. Walsh’s body convulses and goes limp. Collapsing to the floor, her face lobs to the side, eyes open wide and unfocused. A thin, crimson line encircles her throat like a discolored necklace.

Panic claws inside me and escapes in a blood curdling scream. “You killed her! My God! Somebody help us! Please help—”

My pleas come to an abrupt end as Jordan’s shoe hammers into my gut.

“Shut up!” he shouts. “No one can hear you!”

I curl my knees into my chest, trying to shield myself from any more kicks that might come my way. I’m not screaming now, but a few silent tears slide down my cheeks—not for me; for Dr. Walsh. I understood her better than anyone ever did. From the moment she touched me in the ER, I knew her deepest regrets and pain, and I knew how much she wanted to help me.

Jordan glares at me, wrapping the ends of the wires around his hands. He takes a step toward me. I sit up, holding my stomach, and scoot backward until a wooden wall frame and some plumbing block my retreat. I feel behind me and find a thick pipe with a valve on it. Wrapping my fingers around it I try to twist, but it’s on too tight.

“Don’t do this,” I say, attempting to stall Jordan long enough to figure out what to do next. “Everyone in that room saw us leave together. If I turn up missing they’ll know you’re responsible.”

Jordan takes another step towards me. “Those reporters were focused on one thing and one thing only—your father.” He pulls the wire taut between his hands. “And
he’s
too busy saving his own skin to worry about you right now.”

“But I thought the charges against him were dropped.”

“They were, but these sorts of scandals have residual effects. He may have convinced the D.A. that he’s innocent, but now he’s got an entire state full of voters to convince. Though I’m thinking news of his wife’s death will prompt a wave of support. Everyone loves an underdog.”

I struggle to loosen the valve, but I just can’t get enough torque with my hand behind my back.

“What about me?” I continue talking, wondering if there’s any chance I can reason with him. “I want Papa to win the election as much as you do, Jordan. Let me go, and I won’t tell him what you’ve done. I swear it.”

“What about you? You’re my secret weapon, Sunshine. You are the proof that Gaudium can be administered in the fetal stages of development.”

To my surprise, the valve gives a little in my hand. “I don’t understand. What do you mean?”

“We gave your mother, your
real
mother, Gaudium during her first trimester,” he explains. “I didn’t think much of it at first—until you started in with that no contact thing. Beto thought you were nuts, just like Jackie. But I knew better. I knew Gaudium had changed you, made you special. Imagine what we could accomplish if we gave it to every pregnant woman. Gaudium may actually alter the genetic codes linked to all those illnesses we’re trying to eradicate. That is the ultimate cure, isn’t it? The genes for Autism, Alzheimer’s, or Bipolar would simply cease to exist. They would be completely wiped out in a single generation.”

“But Gaudium didn’t work that way with me,” I tell him. “It screwed up my brain.”

“Well, that’s why we call them early testing
trials
. Sometimes they succeed, and sometimes they fail. But research will go forward, new vaccinations will be perfected. Of course, it will all take a great deal of money, which is precisely why your father needs to win this election. With him as Governor, continued funding for Gaudium research is all but guaranteed.”

“If I’m your secret weapon, why did you follow me to Bakersfield to try and run me down?”

Jordan squats in front of me and runs a glove-clad finger along my jaw. The wire in his hands brushes my skin, leaving behind a smear of Dr. Walsh’s blood. I draw back in disgust, but he just smirks at me.

“I wasn’t sure how much your mother really knew,” he tells me. “I couldn’t take the risk of you reading her mind and discovering that I was the one responsible for killing Jackie and Gregory Stark.”

“If you want me dead, why don’t you just shoot me?”

Jordan’s eyebrows arch as if considering the suggestion, but then he shakes his head. “Too messy. How would I hide all the blood?”

Before I can react, Jordan drives the wire against my throat, strangling me. The wire presses into my esophagus, slicing into my skin. My lungs burn from lack of air. Blackness swirls around me.

They say at that moment just before death your whole life passes before your eyes. I see my life and many others—Craig, Dr. Walsh, Mama, Jordan, David. Countless random memories zip through my brain, some popping up and bursting like bubbles, other fading in and out so fast I can hardly keep up. The images are distorted, the emotions and recollections all jumbled together in a tangled mess. The pressure builds as if heading toward an inevitable climax.

And then…

Whack!

I smash the heavy copper valve against the side of Jordan’s skull. The skin instantly splits, creating a deep red canyon. A thick river of blood gushes down his face, and he reels backward, crashing through a sheet of drywall. My body reacts on instinct, gulping for air, but I don’t wait for Jordan to regain his footing. I sprint for the elevator and pound my fist against the button, recalling it to this floor. I don’t have the seconds it will take for it to arrive. Standing here waiting for it, I’m like a deer in a meadow on the first day of hunting season.

I listen for the bell, signaling the elevator’s arrival. I steal a glance behind me to look for Jordan, but I don’t see him. Maybe I hit him harder than I thought. Maybe I knocked him out.

Then I hear it. The bell—followed by the slow swoosh of the elevator doors sliding open. I jump inside and turn to push the button—any button that will take me down. I look for Jordan again, but still nothing. As the doors start to close, I allow myself to feel a moment of relief. But then, just as the doors are about to seal shut, a hand slips in between them. The doors make contact with it and retreat again. Jordan steps inside, a depraved grin on his face. He reaches into his suit jacket and pulls out his Colt pistol.

As he takes aim, his words are clear, “Damn the blood.”