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  “I...” Carmichael watched as Sabrina took a step closer. Her smile was growing, as if she found something funny.

  “What's wrong with you, man?” Brandon continued. “I want answers!”

  “Your...” Carmichael took a deep breath, still staring at Sabrina. “Your daughter is...” He paused. “She's...”

  Slowly, Sabrina raised a finger to her smiling lips, as if to tell him not to say anything more. At the same time, her skin seemed to lighten in an instant and lose its color, and there was a faint cracking sound as lines opened up in her cheeks.

  “Sabrina,” Carmichael whispered, “uh, is...”

  “It doesn't hurt anymore,” the little girl said suddenly.

  “What doesn't?” he asked.

  “Who are you talking to?” Brandon continued. “Doctor Carmichael, I demand to know what's going on here. Are you losing your mind?”

  “Sabrina,” Carmichael said, taking a step back as he stared with a growing sense of horror. “Wait... No!” Turning, he ran from the room and raced along the corridor, almost colliding with several trolleys and nurses. “Out of my way!” he shouted, tripping over the edge of another trolley and almost falling, before reaching the next turning. As soon as he looked along the corridor and saw several nurses running into Sabrina's room, he already knew what was happening.

  “Clear!” he heard a voice shouting in the distance.

  He hurried along the corridor and stopped in the doorway. Several nurses, along with Wallace, were working frantically on the little girl's lifeless bodies. One of the nurses was readying a set of paddles to try to restart her heart, but after a moment Carmichael turned and saw that Sabrina was also standing a little further away, watching him with a calm expression.

  “It's okay,” the little girl said, as nurses continued to work on her lifeless body in the next room. “You made the pain go away. Thank you.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Today

  “So what happened to you?” Doctor Carmichael asked, standing at the foot of Rachel's bed and staring at her bandaged face. “I mean, I know what happened to you with the truck, but what happened apart from that? Why did the sound of a baby crying have such a dramatic effect?”

  He paused, before making his way around the bed and stopping once he was closer.

  “I thought about trying to investigate,” he continued, “but then I figured, well, you're right here, so I might as well just get the information from the horse's mouth. Pardon the expression, obviously.”

  He set a fresh notepad next to her, before slipping a pen into her hand.

  “Write it down,” he said firmly. “All of it. I know I told you to just restrict yourself to one word at a time, but now I want chapter and verse. I want to know what's going on here and -”

  Hearing footsteps in the corridor, he turned just in time to see one of the nurses hurrying past. She didn't stop, didn't even glance into the room, and a moment later she could be heard getting further away.

  “You owe me an explanation,” Carmichael continued, turning back to Rachel. “I want to know. Now.”

  He waited, but her hand didn't move.

  “Write!” he hissed, leaning closer. “Don't you think that after stabbing me in the neck, you should at least have the courtesy to explain yourself? I've done a lot for you, I've damn well kept you alive since you were admitted here, and this is how you repay me?”

  Again he waited, before finally reaching down and taking the pen from her hand.

  “I was hoping we could do this the nice way,” he muttered, placing the pen's nib against the side of her neck and starting to push, “but I guess I should've known better. The nice way is never an option around this place, at least not anymore, not since...” He glanced over his shoulder again, to make doubly certain that no-one was listening. “Not since the bitch showed up.”

  Turning back to Rachel, he began to press the nib of the pen more firmly against her flesh, until finally it cut through. A moment later, a dribble of blood began to run down the side of her neck.

  “Believe me,” he said firmly, “this is nothing compared to what you did to me a couple of hours ago. It's also nothing compared to what I could do to you, if I really wanted to squeeze the information out of you. I'm sure you've noticed, Rachel, that every time I come into the room, I explain to you exactly what I'm going to do. I'm sure you've also noticed that what I do doesn't precisely match what I tell you.” He leaned closer. “Has it occurred to you that I've been doing a little work on the side? A few experiments of my own devising?”

  Reaching into his pocket, he took out a small silver capsule. He unscrewed one end, revealing a needle, and then he slid this section into Rachel's skin, just below her elbow.

  “The history of the human race,” he explained, “has been filled with people trying to devise fresh and ever more ingenious ways of delivering pain to their enemies. But what if you didn't have to worry about how you hurt people? What if you could just tap into their central nervous system and cause absolute, unmitigated agony that burns through ever nerve in their body?”

  Turning the rest of the capsule over in his right hand, he slid a panel until it reached halfway along the edge.

  “I have complete control over you right now,” he whispered. “If you refuse to do what I want...”

  He paused, before flicking a switch at the top of the capsule.

  Rachel's entire body instantly convulsed for a second, causing her to strain at the chains that held her to the bed. Every muscle, every fiber in her body was tense and strained, and even when Carmichael flicked the switch again, it took a moment for Rachel to go back to normal.

  “That was just 1.4 seconds,” he told her, “and at level seven. Imagine if it had been longer, and at the maximum level. That's the kind of pain that causes permanent madness.” He pulled the needle out of Rachel's arm and slipped it back into the capsule. “So now that I've got your attention,” he continued, “maybe you'll do what I ask.” Grabbing the pen and pad, which had fallen off the bed a moment earlier, he placed them next to Rachel's hand again. “Write down exactly what happened to you.”

  Her hand twitched again.

  “Or do you want me to do all of that again?” he asked.

  He watched as she began to write, although her trembling hand made the letters hard to decipher.

  “Calm down,” he hissed, grabbing her hand and holding it still for a moment, before letting go again. “I need to be able to read it.”

  She continued to write, and as he leaned closer he was finally able to make out some of the words. For the next few minutes, he watched as she filled first one page and then another with a series of sentences, and eventually she paused before dropping the pen. Grabbing the pages, he read them again before turning to her.

  “What shack?” he asked. “Where?”

  ***

  “I think I have something,” he said a few minutes later, making his way into Kirsten's office without even bothering to knock first. “I just -”

  Stopping suddenly, he saw that Kirsten was over by the far wall, staring up at some huge letters that had been daubed across the wood in thick red paint, maybe even blood. He tilted his head slightly before stepping back to get a better view.

  “You killed...” he read carefully, struggling a little to decipher the sprawled lettering, “Anne... No, Annie... Redford?”

  “Radford,” Kirsten whispered, staring at the graffiti. “Annie Radford.”

  Carmichael paused for a moment, before turning to her. “Go on, then. Who's Annie Radford?”

  “You don't need to know.”

  “But if -”

  “I need a janitor,” she continued, storming to her desk and picking up the phone. “This has to be painted over immediately. Jesus Christ, I'm surprised she didn't paint a goddamn swastika up there.”

  Carmichael watched with detached, amused suspicion as she drummed her fingers against the desk. He'd known Kirsten Winter for a while now and she'd
always seemed to completely in control, not only of the hospital but of herself too. Now, for the first time, she was clearly frayed at the edges, and he couldn't help but smile as he realized that she was muttering darkly under her breath as she waited for someone to pick up on the other end of the line.

  “What is wrong with this place?” she hissed finally, slamming the phone back down. “Why do I always have such bad luck with janitorial staff?”

  “I seem to recall,” he replied, “that you fired two of the janitors and retained just the one. I imagine maybe he's a little rushed off his feet.”

  “I must have his mobile number somewhere,” she continued, grabbing a leather notebook and rifling frantically through the pages.

  “Do you really think these people earn enough money to have mobile phones?” he asked. “You're paying them a pittance.”

  “What do you want?” she shouted suddenly, glaring at him for a moment before continuing to look through the notebook. “If your sole purpose was to irritate me, then please, consider the job done and move on with your day.”

  “So who is Annie Radford?” he asked again, stepping toward the graffiti. “Is she -”

  “Don't make me warn you again!” she snarled, slamming the notebook down as she turned to him. “I will not allow this hospital to descend into a pit of chaos and anarchy, do you understand? You asked me who she is and I told you that it's beyond your purview. Please, Jonathan, don't ask again, you'll only make yourself look foolish.”

  “It's just that I've heard the name somewhere before,” he continued with a frown, before realizing the truth. “Oh my God, Annie Radford was that girl who -”

  “Stop!”

  “She shot her little brother dead several years ago. It was all over the news, she ended up being committed to some psychiatric institution.”

  “This is not something I want to talk about right now,” she said darkly. “I've tried asking nicely. If you persist, I'll simply have to find some other way to shut you up.”

  He paused for a moment, amused by her anger. “I came to tell you,” he said finally, “that I managed to get Rachel Brown to open up a little about her experiences.” Heading over to the desk, he reached to pick up the notebook, but Kirsten quickly snatched it away. “The official report covering her accident never determined what she was doing out there all alone on that dark little road,” he continued, “or why she was flagging down the truck. The driver said she seemed scared of something, but all attempts to get her to reveal what happened have failed. She seemed to have been blocking it out of her mind. Until now.”

  “Go on,” she replied, clearly still annoyed.

  “Well, it didn't make a whole lot of sense, I think her mind is more damaged that we thought. She wrote something about a shack near the road, and the sound of a baby crying, and then...” He paused, as if he found the next part embarrassing. “Well, this is where it gets strange, but she wrote something about the baby being dead, and about a dead mother who got up from a chair.”

  “Go on.”

  “Obviously it's just some kind of hysterical -”

  “Go on, Jonathan,” she continued, interrupting him. She seemed calmer now, as if these new details had refocused her mind. “What else did she write?”

  “Not much. She tires very easily. She wrote that she had to run, and I suppose that's when she met the truck in such an unfortunate and brutal manner. The thing is, I checked online and looked at a satellite image of that stretch of road. There is some kind of small building out there in the middle of some scrubland. Whatever it is, it looks small, so it certainly might be a shack. I was thinking that maybe I'd head on out there at the weekend and -”

  “No,” Kirsten said firmly.

  “No?”

  “No.”

  He paused. “Might I ask why not?”

  “Because I'm telling you, that's why,” she continued. “Do you remember when I hired you and I told you that sometimes you'd just have to follow my instructions and accept that they wouldn't be explained to you?”

  “This is one of those times?”

  “If you know what's good for you, you'll forget about this amateur detective work and focus instead on treating your patients. Plus your work on the side, which I know is your real purpose in being here.” She stepped around the desk, stopping right in front of him. “It would be an awful shame, would it not, if this hospital's support for your experiments were to suddenly be withdrawn?”

  “Are you threatening me?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  He paused. “Fine,” he said after a moment. “I suppose I don't need to know what's going on, not so long as it doesn't directly impact Rachel's treatment.”

  “It doesn't, I can assure you.” Taking the silver capsule from his pocket, he held it up for her to see. “At least I proved that this thing works.”

  She smiled, taking the capsule from him and examining it for a moment. “You used it on Rachel?”

  “It was the only way to get her to talk.”

  “And you... You were able to switch on her pain?”

  “No context required,” he said proudly. “Just pure agony delivered direct to her body.”

  She unscrewed the capsule and looked at the needle. “So you were right. You can turn pain on and off.” She slid the needle into her arm, just above the wrist.

  “Careful -” he began.

  “Don't tell me what to do,” she muttered, examining the capsule for a moment before running the slider down to the bottom.

  “You've taken it the wrong way,” he explained. “Maximum pain is the other direction.”

  Ignoring him, she flicked the switch at the top of the capsule, and a moment later she gasped. Her eyes widened and, after a moment, she seemed close to tears.

  “That setting shouldn't cause pain,” Carmichael told her. “You've got it at the other end, you're...” He paused, seeing that she seemed shocked by what she was experiencing. “You're taking pain away,” he continued, with a frown. “Were you in pain before?”

  “Always,” she whispered. “For the past few years, every second of every day... I'd forgotten what it was like to be free of pain.” She paused, and finally a single tear rolled down her cheek. “I feel... Not like myself.”

  Carmichael watched for a moment, until finally Kirsten slid the slider back along and pulled the needle from her arm.

  “You don't need to do that,” he told her. “The beauty of the device is that once the level of pain has been set, it won't change unless you specifically input a new setting on the slider. You could -”

  “I prefer the pain,” she muttered, handing the capsule back to him. “Life without pain is soft and easy.”

  “But -”

  “Now,” she continued, forcing a smile, “I believe your shift still has several more hours to run, does it not? I'm sure your time would be better spent dealing with the poor, sick patients in our beds, rather than standing here and irritating me?” She reached out and putting a hand on his shoulder. “But thank you, Jonathan, for letting me know that Rachel has become so talkative. You did the right thing in coming to tell me.”

  “I could take your pain away,” he told her. “I thought that was one of the reasons you agreed to -”

  “Then you were wrong,” she said firmly.

  “But even -”

  “You were wrong,” she said again, fixing him with a stare that made clear her keenness to end the discussion. “My interests in your work are more... varied. I'm glad you shared the latest results with me, though. It's clear your theories are leading you in the right direction.”

  “Sometimes,” he replied, “I feel as if I'm on a very tight leash. And other times, I feel as if there's no leash at all, and you've got your fingers wrapped directly around my throat.”

  “Get back to work,” she told him. “Do what you're best at. I trust you have your next tests all mapped out?”

  He turned and headed to the door, while wondering whether he should
be honest with her. He figured she'd most likely been spying on him anyway, but at the same time he didn't want to just roll over and give everything up. If nothing else, he wanted to preserve some dignity, and besides, he was worried what she'd do if she no longer needed him around.

  “My theory still stands,” he said finally as he reached the door. “In many ways, Rachel Brown has been the perfect patient for my latest round of experiments. More than any of the others here, she proves that pain is the only real emotion that any human feels. All the other emotions, including love and happiness, are merely evolutions of the primary pain response and the -”

  “Whatever,” she replied, interrupting him. “I'm sure you're doing fabulously, Jonathan, and I look forward to reading your final report. And if you happen to spot a janitor on your travels, please tell him to drop what he's doing and come to my office at once.” Looking down at the papers on her desk, she began to leaf through them.

  “Did you?” he asked.

  She looked over at him.

  “The message on the wall,” he continued. “Come on, you know I won't tell anyone. Did you kill this Annie Radford girl?”

  She paused for a moment. “No,” she said finally. “No. The miserable wretch who daubed this on the wall is completely mistaken. I didn't kill Annie Radford.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Five years ago

  “They can't fire you!” Wallace replied, following Carmichael across the reception area. “That's insane! Sabrina Huntingdon was doomed from the moment she came to this goddamn place! You did everything you could to help that poor kid, but everyone knew you were fighting a losing battle!”

  “Tell that to Senator Huntingdon,” Carmichael replied, heading out through the front door and finally stopping in the parking lot. He paused for a moment, taking deep breaths as he felt the morning sun on his face. “The man has apparently made it his new mission in life to ensure that I'm never again employed by a hospital in this country. His daughter's death has proved to be a major inconvenience for his election campaign.”