Jaden Baker (2 page)

Libby frowned. “Has he been seen by a doctor?”

The nurse consulted the computer screen. “He was evaluated when he came in, and they’re not sure what’s wrong with him.”

Frowning still, Libby pressed on. “They’re not sure what’s wrong, so he’s just lying somewhere? Why hasn’t he been moved to another wing of the hospital?”

The nurse shook her head. “He just got here, Miss. It’s a hospital, not a five star hotel.”

Libby smirked. “Right.”

She wasn’t family. It would be difficult to see him without having some kind of relationship with him… If only she’d made up something back in the store, giving him a fake name and saying she was his something or other. She’d have to try another tactic.

Libby smiled warmly. “I’m sorry. I know you’re busy and deal with people nagging all day long. I’m not related to this guy, but I was the one who saw him collapse and I just want to pop in and wish him good luck. Can I have five minutes with him?”

The nurse considered her for a moment. Sensing weakness, Libby pressed on.

“He’s a John Doe, he might not have anyone. I only want to encourage him to pull through this,” Libby added, giving a little punch in the air. “I wouldn’t mind if there was another nurse present.”

The nurse deliberated. Libby went in for the attack. “I’ve always said nurses work just as hard or more than doctors. I mean, without nurses, the hospital falls apart. It’s you guys who make this place run as efficiently as it does. And it’s doctors in their white coats who get all the credit. You are the unsung heroes who—”

“Okay,” said the nurse, raising her hand but smiling. “I’ll take you to see him.”

“Thank you,” said Libby, and as she followed the nurse through the maze of hallways, she had a spring of victory in her step. The nurse led her into a shared room, the John Doe lay in the second of three beds.

“This isn’t some ex-boyfriend of yours is it? You’re not going to smother him with a pillow as soon as I leave?” asked the nurse.

“No, I bumped into him today.”

“Okay, honey. You have five minutes.” The nurse left her alone with John Doe.

Libby walked to the head of his bed. His eyes flickered under their lids. REM sleep? She shook his shoulder but there was no change. The hospital staff had removed his coat, but he was not yet in a hospital gown. His long sleeved t-shirt and corduroy pants were out of place in the sterile environment. She supposed he was lucky to have made it past the first level of triage. Obviously he wasn’t in any danger if he was sleeping.

“Well,” Libby said, “here we are. You’re in the hospital, and...everything is going to be okay.” She picked up his hand, held it in hers, then turned it over. Under new bruises were old scars on the back of his hand, straight scars in a crosshatching pattern. They were not surgical. Turning his hand palm up, she found a thick scar running horizontal on his wrist, and several smaller scars under his palm. Scars from restraints.

Perplexed, she moved to his other side and examined his left hand. Same thing. Scars on the back of his hand, scars from restraints below the palm, and a thicker horizontal scar on his wrist.

Fighting restraints...then he
was
a criminal, probably a dangerous one. If not a criminal, then he was insane and had escaped from an asylum.

A mental patient... She revisited the thick scars on his wrists. He’d slit them. The angle of the scar was consistent with a suicide attempt. The right wasn’t as thick as the left because he was right-handed. It was straight across, long, unwavering. No hesitation. Death had been a sure decision.

She was confused. How insane could he be? He appeared normal, neither awkward or out of place. He knew where he was and where he didn’t want to be. But she wasn’t a doctor. Maybe he was high-functioning.

No medication in his pockets, though. Crazy people were crazier without their meds, weren’t they? If he was so out of control he needed restraints, then he should have been nuttier without his medication.

Libby walked back to his right side and studied him more closely, as if willing his identity from him. No matter how she analyzed him, she didn’t think he was a convict. Perhaps she was being delusional, but the more she considered the evidence, the more she was sure he wasn’t insane. That little voice in her head she often, and regretfully, ignored told her he wasn’t a villain.

A lone-wolf, maybe, staying off the radar to avoid the IRS. An appealing lifestyle: he lived on the edge, made money under the table and didn’t pay taxes, didn’t have a name, couldn’t be tracked. He led a freer life than anyone. But the scars?

“Five minutes are up,” said a different nurse as she came bristling into the room, throwing the curtains to give the man privacy. She moved jerkily, tossing sheets on the chair next to the bed. “Time to go, ma’am,” she said again.

“Yeah,” Libby said, staring at the sleeping man. “Yeah, okay.”

The nurse rolled up the man’s sleeve to insert an IV line. She paused. Libby watched her. She had been rough and fast, why the interruption? Curious, Libby peeked over the nurse’s shoulder.

There was a tattoo on his forearm: an inverted pyramid, split half black, half white, with a gray top. Underneath the triangle was unmistakably a barcode.

Small bursts of memories came to Libby. She’d seen that symbol before, seen it on stationary, business cards, on invitations. She knew exactly what it was. Archcroft.

The nurse peered over her shoulder at Libby and gave her a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “You need to go now, ma’am,” she said icily.

Libby wasn’t the only one who recognized the symbol.

“Do you know what it means?” Libby asked in her best attempt at casual.

“No,” answered the nurse too quickly.

“Oh. Okay. Well, bye,” she said, then hurried out.

She whipped her phone from her purse, and scrolled through her emergency-only contacts. There was her father’s cell number, unless he’d changed it. She promised herself she’d only call him if her life was in imminent danger. She tapped his number and put the phone to her ear.

It rang once.

She hadn’t spoken to him in years, how was she going to handle this? Her stomach churned with nervousness.

The phone rang a second time.

He had to know something, didn’t he? John Doe had the Archcroft logo tattooed on his arm—with a freaking barcode! How weird was that? So science fiction...

Three times.

Don’t let them take me
, he had said. There were restraint scars on his wrists, and he’d tried to commit suicide.

Libby pushed “End call” before the phone rang a fourth time.

The mystery man, John Doe, was running from Archcroft. They kept him against his will and he escaped. They tortured him. He was lucky to be free, and would have risked death rather than go to a hospital and be discovered.

Yes. The barcode was a tracking method. He was important. They wanted him back. The little voice in her head cheered, congratulating her.

Libby half ran to the waiting room and called an elevator. She didn’t know what to do, but she knew she had to do something. She was right. He wasn’t a criminal. He wasn’t insane. He was on the run. It wasn’t her fault he was here, per se. Yet she felt responsible. She knew about Archcroft, knew it was more than it pretended to be.

Her father may or may not have answers. The little voice cautioned her. She paced the lobby floor, trying but failing to come up with a plan. The staff wouldn’t let her anywhere near John Doe now they knew who or what he was. She felt helpless, but stayed, hoping an idea would come.

Dr. Clarkson was busy charting when Amanda came to him with an air of urgency. She was an exceptional scrub nurse, but outside the OR, she was as annoying and abrasive as a yapping Chihuahua snapping at heels.

“I have to talk to you,” she said.

Any situation involving Amanda talking one-on-one with him was a situation to be avoided. If he stayed in the hall, jotting notes, people passing by, she might leave him alone to his work and make her point quickly.

“Go ahead,” Clarkson said.

“This is important.”

“What?” he asked, not sure he believed her.

“In private?” she said, nodding to an empty examining room.

“I’m busy,” he said curtly.

Rather than take offense, she grabbed him by the elbow and dragged him into an empty room. When he opened his mouth to protest, she covered it with a hand.

“I’ve found someone,” she said in a hurried but quiet voice. “He’s got an Archcroft tattoo with a barcode. He didn’t come in with any identification. He’s unconscious but I don’t know for how long. I haven’t told anyone else,” she added as she correctly read his face.

He was intrigued. Amanda was right to come to him with the information, but he wasn’t sure what to do. He nodded to her. “Show me.”

Striding along confidently and quietly, Amanda led him upstairs and into John Doe’s semi-private room. Thankfully no one interrupted them or followed.

John Doe was in his mid twenties, had long hair and beard, but nothing about him was remarkable. Then Amanda rolled up the man’s sleeve to reveal the tattoo.

“See?” she simpered.

Yes he did. Dr. Clarkson had not heard of any Archcroft subjects in Seattle, much less in the open. His interest intensified.

“We need to scan it,” he said, pointing to the barcode, “so we can figure out who he is. Do you know how to do that?”

She shrugged.

“Let’s move him somewhere private.”

They wheeled his bed into the hall to the nearest elevator, shielding themselves behind the sliding doors.

“We need to hook a scanner to a computer with internet access,” Amanda said.

“How do you know that?” he asked her.

“I don’t, but it’s the only thing I can think of. Do you have any better ideas?” she snapped, glaring at him.

He rolled his eyes. “No I don’t.”

Dr. Clarkson retrieved his laptop from his office and Amanda confiscated a barcode scanner with a USB connector port from a supply closet. She plugged it into the computer and Clarkson powered on the machine, which searched for WiFi hotspots. There were many.

Amanda strung the scanner over the man’s body. The red beam hovered over the barcode. She pulled the trigger.

The scanner beeped: a valid code. Dr. Clarkson met her eyes, then both turned their attention to the computer screen.

A web browser opened. The website was blank except for a text entry field with a submit button.

Clarkson looked at the barcode tattoo. “Enter the numbers I read off,” he told her, his voice trembling with excitement.

“J B zero zero two three zero zero.”

Amanda entered the numbers and clicked Submit.

LOADING, and an hourglass replaced the cursor.

After a few moments a document appeared. Along the top read: EMERGENCY RPI (BAKER, JADEN) INFORMATION. In one corner was a large headshot of a teenage boy with short black hair and gray eyes. To the right of the photo was a list of information including:

Research Project Individual
: Baker, Jaden

Current age
: 25

Archcroft Registration Number
: JB002300

Handler
: Chad Dalton, M.D.

Handler 2
: Joseph Madrid, M.D.

Research Purpose
: PK

Status
: Incomplete. See notes.

Warnings
:

DO NOT submit to MRI or CAT examination.

RPI is considered extremely dangerous. DO NOT attempt capture until contacting mainline to receive instructions.

DO NOT USE ANTI-DEPRESSANTS, as they negatively
affect RPI health.

KEEP RPI in clean room, away from any loose, sharp or heavy objects, as they can be used as weapons or to harm the RPI.