The Iron Quill (2 page)

“I can’t talk loudly . . . please.”

My shoulders dropped as a tingling sensation crept up my back, calling me to turn around. I fought it, trying to push it away and force myself to open the door, but just couldn’t. I wanted everything to be fixed and needed him to help me. Needed something, anything. I let go of the handle and made my way back over to him.

He closed his eyes and slowly opened them again, sighing. “Okay, Tim did try to kill me and he’ll do it to you, too. He’s crazy. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll stop snooping around. Just let it go.”

Is that what he stopped me for? To warn me about Tim?

He had no idea.

“Chase, Tim’s grandfather already kidnapped me, broke my hand, and used my face for slapping practice. Then, he drained me of nearly all my blood, so he could mix some serum that your friends are trying to ‘buy’. Oh yeah, and a feeling I have tells me I probably won’t live past nineteen anyway. So Tim doesn’t scare me. I just want Wes home.”

He looked shocked by my revelations, but instead of addressing them, he turned away and quietly mumbled, “These people aren’t to be messed with. You see what they did to me.”

“Yeah, and I see that you’re going to rot in jail because you’re afraid to tell the truth about Tim.”

He tried to sit up, but cringed in pain as he held his ribs. “I don’t have anyone. I have nowhere to go. I won’t make it out there anyway. I’m better off in jail.”

“You’re making a mistake.”

“Well, that’s a chance I’ll take.”

“Fine,” I said, as he turned back to get a glimpse of my stoic expression. “I’m sorry, Chase. I just don’t have any more time or energy to go in circles about this. I have to figure out how to get Wes out of this mess.”

He looked at me for a moment. “Fine.”

Without even saying goodbye, I turned around and walked out, with nowhere to go.

After driving around for an hour, I decided to go to Wes’.

Driving up and down the slopes of his driveway seemed to match how I felt. One minute I was a mess, and the next I was full of hope. Then the next was awful again. No matter how twisted my emotions were, the sight of Wes’ house somehow brought a strong sense of warmth.

The house was completely still on the hillside, but it screamed his name to me. The echo traveled around inside my head, wrapping itself around my senses, compelling me to answer it back.

“Yes,” I whispered, slowly pulling to a stop behind his truck. “I miss him, too.”

Several moments went by before I gathered the courage to guide myself up his steps. Still in possession of his keys from our trip, I slid the house key into the lock and pushed open the door and flinched. The shock of an ear-piercing siren sent my heart cartwheeling, causing me to jump backward.

By the time I realized it was just his house alarm, it had been blaring for nearly fifteen seconds. I was tempted to leave, then remembered I wasn’t trespassing. If anyone was permitted to be there, it was me, and if I left, the police would show up.

Making the decision to prevent that and to continue on, I hurried into the house, trying to remember the code.

He’d given it to me in case of an emergency, but I’d never thought there would actually be a need for it, so I hadn’t paid much attention. Now, I wished I had.
What was it? What was it? Think, Sophie.

Gosh! 15—, no, 1660?

Crap
.

Dang it
. I was staring at the keypad. My hands shaking, my heart racing. How many more seconds did I have before the cops would come?

I thought hard. I pictured his perfect face standing right there in the foyer with me, his perfect grin leaning into me as he spoke. Once I envisioned his calm voice talking to me, it flowed out like melted butter: 1663.

My fingers quickly punched in the numbers 1-6-6-3. I couldn’t believe it didn’t register when he’d told me the first time. Sixteen for 1916, and 63 for 1963. The two prior times he had loved me.

I turned my back to the wall as the alarm ceased, repeating the code several more times. 1663,1663. By the tenth time, my legs had become weak and my body slid to the floor where I found myself at the bottom of the hill, again.

I don’t know how many tears fell or how much time elapsed before my sadness turned to worry again. I reached in my purse and checked my phone. Four bars and no missed calls. I squeezed it tightly in my hands and made my way over to his sofa, cradling it, hoping for a swift end to my miserable waiting.

T
he helicopter touched down at 10 p.m. Only three hours from the time my superiors had called my house with the news that Mr. Wilson would be arriving. This was a moment I had eagerly anticipated since my assignment to Unit 86.

From the day I was placed in charge of the recovery wing, I’d often wondered what the world had come to. My father had convinced me to follow in his footsteps and join the army, but I’ve never wanted anything to do with war. It was a compromise to serve as a doctor.

In my two previous tours, I’d saved more lives than anyone expected. I never lost a single soldier who was brought to me, no matter how wounded.

It was extremely rewarding, and made me content with my profession, until my superiors called upon me for help with a group of soldiers who were suffering from painful drug withdrawals. I had reservations when I found out it was from experimental performance-enhancing injections, but they pressed on.

They needed someone who had experience in the field of hematology
and
a security clearance. They insisted I’d be able to continue healing people while saving thousands of soldiers’ lives in the future. Then they offered me everything, including civilian status and a large stipend.

I didn’t care as much about the stipend, but the civilian status got my attention. It meant that I’d be free to go into civilian practice sooner than expected.

So, for two years, I have worked nonstop, researching and observing soldiers, looking for a solution. I’ve become passionate about this project, and after monitoring the effects of withdrawal, I not only want the soldiers to get better, I want to prevent future suffering.

If there’s a medication that the soldiers can take to give them an edge against physical and chemical attacks, then I want to be a part of that. But I can’t figure it out. Something is missing. These men benefit for only short periods of time before their bodies reject it and go into shock, or worse.

Watching these young men suffer has eaten away at me, and now my superiors have told me that Weston Wilson III, great-nephew to the only doctor ever known to work with cold-blood infusions in humans, is coming to visit me with information to help.

I’m elated, curious, and quite frankly honored. It’s a meeting I have definitely been looking forward to.

I walked down the heavily secured corridor leading up to the landing pad. Once outside, I felt the chill of the bitter snowstorm that had been brewing since Friday. The icy flakes blew against my exposed skin. I cupped my hands around my mouth and blew warm breath into them. Between the cold and the air from the spinning rotor, my warm breath was useless. I turned my back against the wind until the helicopter lifted off and I heard footsteps approaching.

I was eager to turn back, but something in me was nervous.
Could this kid really give me the answers I need?
After all, he was connected to Dr. Oliver Thomas himself.

I inhaled deeply and turned, noticing immediately that something seemed off. It could’ve been the way four uniformed soldiers were escorting Mr. Wilson as if he was a flight risk. Or it could’ve been the aura he gave off. As they walked toward me, the four soldiers were hunched over, defensively fighting off the same bitter breeze that surrounded me. But Mr. Wilson was walking upright, seemingly unbothered by the icy air swirling around us.

For a moment it made him appear angelic, even immune to nature’s angry weapons as he so impressively rose above them.

Actually,
impressive
was the wrong word. He was mesmerizing, giving off a sense that no education in the world could help me save the patients inside, but that strangely . . . he could. And he was there to meet with me. My insides swelled with curiosity.

I fought the cold wind and advanced toward them.

“Gentlemen!”

“Doctor.”

Three soldiers, along with Staff Sergeant John Peirce stopped just short of running into me.

“Shall we go?” I questioned, hoping for a return to warmth.

“Certainly.” It was then that I noticed Peirce had hold of Mr. Wilson’s elbow.

Without giving the gesture further thought, I turned and hastily made my way indoors.

Once we were all inside, I turned to greet my guest more formally. To my surprise, Wilson’s eyes were locked on me. I almost had the urge to look away as an unknown feeling of guilt crept through me. I couldn’t grasp the source, because
I
was the one called from the warmth of my home to meet
him
at this hour.

Blinking away possible answers to the whens and whys, I extended my hand.

“Mr. Wilson. I’m Dr. Carter, head physician on board here. It’s nice of you to visit.”

His brows rose while his gaze traveled to my outstretched hand. He appeared completely confused by my greeting and even hesitant to shake my hand.

After a pause, he looked down to his own hand, which was covered in heavy-duty specialty gloves as if he had just finished climbing Mount Everest.

Shaking hands with such a thick glove would have been awkward, so I was relieved when he decided to take it off, even if it was more slowly than I appreciated. Locking palms, his handshake was firm and warm. Very warm, and with my cold hands, I became jealous.

“Weston,” he said.

Fighting distracting thoughts of where I could get a pair of those gloves, I stood mute for a few seconds before realizing he was waiting for a response. “Excuse me?” I asked, feeling like I’d missed a question.

“You can call me Weston,” he repeated, pulling back his hand.

“Certainly. Weston. Well, I’m glad to finally meet with you and hear about your discoveries.”

With a slight narrowing of his eyes, he nodded.

“Please. Let’s meet in my office.”

I opened my palm toward the direction of my study, and once again, the group of five traveled huddled together. Sergeant Pierce’s hand was still on Weston’s arm.

Following them allowed me more time to digest my feelings. On one hand, I felt as if I were meeting a celebrity. He was the flesh and blood of Dr. Thomas andcurrent owner of the California Blood Research Lab. He could have the answers we needed. The answer to a huge breakthrough for the United States military. This was well worth meeting at this hour, but beneath a very shallow surface was the feeling that I was the only one actually looking forward to this.

When we reached my study, Sergeant Pierce turned and informed me in a near whisper that he’d need to come in with us.

“Why?” I asked, confused that the sergeant would want to listen in on a medical discussion.

“It’s the sergeant major’s orders.”

“Orders?”

“Those are my instructions. You’re more than welcome to call him.”

“That won’t be necessary.” I didn’t anticipate getting into anything heavy at such a late hour anyway, and if we did, it would go right over Sergeant Pierce’s head. “Alright. Let’s begin.”

I held the door open and watched as Sergeant Pierce tried to squeeze through the door, still beside Weston.

“Would you like something to drink?” I offered, before heading to my desk.

Weston nearly laughed and shook his head. “I’ll pass.”

Between him not wanting to shake my hand and his aloofness, I was beginning to need a cup of coffee.

Pulling my gaze away from the empty pot on my mini bar, I refocused and attempted more hospitality. “Mr. Wilson. I’m sorry, I mean Weston, I want to thank you for this opportunity.”

Another muffled sound.

Studying him closely and fighting the thick air between us, I cut right to it. “Look, I’m a little confused as to the timing of your visit.”

Taking a long pause, he gathered his breath and leaned forward. “Dr. Carter, I’m afraid I don’t know why I’m here at this hour either.”

I jerked my head back and bounced my gaze from him to Sergeant Pierce, waiting for some clarification.

Sergeant Pierce cleared his throat. “Alright. It’s late and I think Mr. Wilson needs rest. Tomorrow would probably be a more appropriate time to meet with him. After all, he’s just flown in.”

Although Weston said nothing, he shook his head slightly as if he could not believe we had the audacity to wake
him
at this hour. Needless to say, this was not how I imagined our first encounter.

“Certainly. That is probably best.” I turned my attention to Weston. “I’ll see you in the morning, then?”

“It appears so,” he answered.

“Good then. Where are you staying? Would you like a ride?”

Before he could reply, Sergeant Pierce spoke up, “Mr. Wilson is staying here tonight.”

“Here?” I countered quickly.

“Yes. Here. Orders again.”

“But it’s a hospital.”

“It also has a top secret facility that no one has access to. He needs to stay
here
until he’s permitted to leave.”

Something about the way he said
permitted
rubbed me the wrong way, but he was right. No one was allowed on this level without special clearance. Not even family members of the patients. It only seemed natural that they not allow Mr. Wilson to come and go freely.

“Do you need me to find a room?” I offered.

Sergeant Pierce answered again. “Negative. One has already been set aside.”

Following that, he motioned for Weston to follow him without as much as a goodnight.

With the last of my time wasted, I returned home for the night, suddenly not wanting to hear anything Mr. Wilson had to offer. That was my emotions talking, because in reality, I yearned to know
everything
hidden inside that mind of his.