Trauma (44 page)

In that moment Carrie's resolve thickened. She caught her breath and with great effort, fixed her gaze on Bushman. She would not die with her eyes closed. She would stare into the face of her killer. It was the last bit of humanity she had left.

Bushman's outstretched arm was like a steel rod. The pistol in his hand did not waver.

“Do you have anything to say?” Bushman asked.

“Yeah, get the fuck away from my sister.”

Carrie heard an enormous bang, a bright flash of light that came from her right. In the very next instant, Terry Bushman's entire head vanished inside an explosion of blood, brains, and bone.

 

CHAPTER 59

All Carrie could see was the blur of her brother, Adam, as he charged into the room, his rifle aimed at Ram
ó
n Hernandez. Bushman had crumpled to the floor, his face no longer recognizable beneath a gruesome crimson mask. The gun tumbled from Bushman's lifeless hand and skidded close to Fasciani's cage, far out of Carrie's reach. Several flashes erupted from the barrel of Adam's rifle, but Hernandez dropped to the floor with startling quickness, and as he did, removed a pistol from his holster.

“Look out, Adam!” Carrie screamed. As she spoke those words, bright flashes erupted from Hernandez's gun, aimed in Adam's direction.

Trapped inside their cages, the vets reacted to the sudden tumult as though they were part of the action. Some took cover, while others held up their arms and fired make-believe weapons at invisible targets.

With his feet in constant motion, Adam zigzagged using quick cuts that avoided the hail of bullets. The muffled pops from Hernandez's weapon rang out in the hollow enclosure. Feeling helpless beyond measure, Carrie grabbed the chain-link wire of her prison cell and pulled futilely, watching the scene unfold as if in slow motion.

Adam, surefooted and dexterous, veered left, then right in a series of sharp turns that closed the gap between him and Hernandez considerably. Seeking protection, Adam took shelter behind one of the many thick concrete support columns and opened a line of fire at Hernandez, who immediately returned volley. Bright flashes hindered her vision, but Carrie saw a few bullets fired by Hernandez smack into the concrete column that shielded her brother. Several more hit the ground near Adam's feet.

Hernandez's fire paused, during which Adam leaned out and got off several shots. Adam had a pistol strapped to his waist, but he seemed to prefer the accuracy of his rifle.

Of the six or so shots Adam fired, one hit the intended target. A geyser of blood erupted from Hernandez's punctured arm. He let out a savage scream. Clamping his hand over the wound, Hernandez found cover behind the tall pile of detritus laundry machines discarded nearby. For the moment, at least, he was out of Adam's direct firing line.

Adam let fly several shots, but those did nothing against Hernandez's massive steel barricade. To Carrie's horror, Adam unsheathed an enormous bowie knife from an ankle holster and slipped out from behind the protection of the support column. Holding the rifle one-handed, Adam fired several more shots designed to hold Hernandez in place. He set the rifle on the ground without making a sound. His finger went to his lips, urging Carrie's silence.

Adam approached the fortification of laundry machines stealthily, taking quick steps. Hernandez may have been reloading, or recovering, during the short respite, which allowed Adam to reach the barricade without incident. With a sudden burst of motion, Adam shot forward and ascended the metal mountain with the skill and grace of a ram.

Hernandez, sensing imminent danger, came up from his hiding place and raised his weapon to fire. At that same instant, Adam reached the top of the pile, and he leapt down on Hernandez, arms and legs spread-eagled, the knife clutched in his hand like a deadly talon.

The two entangled men vanished behind the metal mound, out of Carrie's sight. When they finally emerged, Adam had the knife poised above Hernandez's head, pressing with all his might. Hernandez grimaced as he parried the knife attack with his right hand, while his left clutched Adam's throat. The two men tussled and spun in a violent ballet.

Adam's color began to change, alarming red to terrifying blue, and the strength in his arm began to fade. Hernandez managed to bend the wrist enough to turn the blade against Adam. Then Hernandez applied tremendous pressure that bent the arm and inched the blade closer to Adam's heart.

Adam grunted and snorted as he tried to battle back.

The blade still moved closer.

“No!” Carrie screamed.

But there was no stopping it now. Hernandez plunged the knife into Adam's chest, burying it up to the hilt. Adam's mouth fell open, but no sound escaped. As he stumbled backward, Adam used his right hand to retrieve the pistol from its holster. He flicked his wrist and fired a shot that struck Hernandez in the stomach. Adam shot again, in the heart this time, and Hernandez went slack as his eyes bugged out. They fell on top of each other and Adam fired two more times, into the stomach area. Those bullets exploded out Hernandez's back and made his body jump as if it had been electrocuted.

Adam rolled Hernandez off of him, and fished a ring full of keys from the dead man's pockets. With great exertion, Adam staggered to his feet, with the knife still protruding from his chest. Tears streamed down Carrie's face as Adam stumbled toward her cage. Blood sputtered from Adam's throat, painting the floor with bright red dots. He fumbled with the keys, but dropped to his knees before he could put one in the lock.

Carrie fell to the floor with him and stuck her hands through the wire to hold her brother upright. She moved her hands up a few holes in the wire to caress Adam's bloodstained face. His body listed from side to side, unsteady in her grasp, as if he were being tossed by waves.

“Adam, Adam, what are you doing here? Oh, Adam.”

“I … followed … you. Been following you.” The rasp in Adam's voice, the rattle in his chest, cleaved Carrie's heart.

Carrie recalled the Camaro she had seen in her rearview mirror. She'd thought little of it, but the car
had
belonged to her brother.

“I saw you,” Carrie said.

Adam broke into that trademark smile of his, but this time flashed Carrie teeth that were stained bloodred.

“You followed them,” Adam managed. “And I followed you. Protect, you—finally got the damn car working. Didn't tell you … told nobody, didn't want you to spot me. Guess you did anyway…”

There were certainly opportunities for Adam to come and go without anybody at home to notice. Maybe her parents had seen his car was gone, but with her phone shut off they had no way to reach her.

Adam's eyes glazed over.

“No,” Carrie whimpered, and she held on tighter. “Don't you die on me. Don't you do it.”

“Love you, sis,” Adam said. It was obvious that incredible strength was required for Adam to push the key ring toward Carrie's cage. “Get out. Get out of here.”

“No, I'm not letting go.”

Adam glanced down at the knife buried in his chest. “I am,” he said. “I am.”

With that, Adam's body went limp. The eyes Carrie had seen full of both laughter and rage turned glassy and vacant. His expression, drained, became nearly serene.

Carrie sobbed and stretched through the wire to clutch her brother in her arms. She was still holding on to him when Braxton Price and Dr. Finley returned to the laundry room and saw the incredible carnage. Price drew his gun and took aim at Carrie, who would not for a second let go of her brother. She put her head up against the wire, desperate to feel more connected to Adam. Her eyes closed and she waited for death to come.

“They don't pay me enough,” Price said.

A gunshot rang out, and then another.

Carrie looked just as a bullet lodged dead center into Price's skull. Price went limp, and he dropped to the ground like a marionette separated from its strings. A third gunshot sounded; this one hit Dr. Finley in the neck. Clutching the wound, Dr. Finley spun around in frantic circles, blood spewing through his fingers, spraying in all directions, a look of horror on his face. He tumbled to the floor near Price's inert body, where he convulsed and gurgled on the blood that now filled his throat, until his spasms stopped and he went perfectly still.

Confused by who had fired, Carrie turned her head in the direction of those gunshots. She saw Eric Fasciani, on his feet in a firing stance, IV in his arm, holding Bushman's smoking pistol in his right hand.

Fasciani looked over at Carrie and said, “Sergeant! Sergeant! I got two confirmed kills here, that's two confirmed kills.”

 

EPILOGUE

Only certain sections of the Arlington Cemetery allow private headstone markers to be placed. Adam's marker was a simple design, dignified, and appropriate for a military setting. The inscription was factual: name, rank, date of birth, date of death, and a short phrase that required special approval. It read:
Remember those with invisible wounds
.

Spring days, like this seventy-degree delight in mid April, are seldom so spectacular, and the warm breeze made the freshly bloomed cherry blossoms smell even sweeter. The cemetery was mostly deserted at that midday hour, except for Howard and Irene Bryant, who were walking arm in arm back to their rental car parked nearby—and for David and Carrie, who lingered behind, holding hands, gazing at Adam's gravestone with somber expressions.

Carrie clutched in her hand the qualification number from her recent running of the Boston Marathon. She put the number on the grass in front of Adam's grave and used a rock she'd brought with her to hold it in place. When she stood, her eyes were filled with tears, and she clutched David's hand for comfort.

“I didn't do great, little brother,” Carrie said, her voice cracking with emotion. “But I finished. Can't believe we lived in Hopkinton all those years and never bothered to run the big race. Well, I ran it for you. For Steve, for Eric, for all the vets. I raised about two thousand dollars for the Red Sox's Home Base Program, too, which I guess is pretty good. It'll help other vets suffering from PTSD, so I hope you're pleased.”

Carrie's throat closed. She tried to take a breath, but a sob came out instead. It took time before she could speak again. When she did, her voice was soft and it trembled.

“I miss you every day, and I love you so very much,” Carrie said through her gathering tears. “So here's the big news Mom and Dad told you I was going to share. Sandra Goodwin was finally sentenced today. That's really why we came down. I wanted to be here when it happened so I could tell you personally. It took
a year
for the trial,” Carrie said. “Can you believe it's been a year? Well, she's going to spend the rest of her life in prison for what she did. Cal Trent and Bob Richardson—well, their trials are still under way, but they'll get the same, don't you worry about it.”

Carrie fished a tissue from her purse and used it to wipe away the tears. She remembered something else to tell her brother.

“They found a burial site.”

Buried. Burned.

Carrie had heard all about the gruesome details of the killings, since she became close with the new secretary of Veterans Affairs. There had been eleven killings, they thought, but it could be more. Bodies turned to ash. The former secretary had resigned in disgrace, along with the medical director at the Boston VA, even though he claimed no involvement with Dr. Finley's program, no knowledge that DARPA's blood money funded a nightmare factory.

“Not much new to report on Eric's condition, or the others,” Carrie said. “They're still suffering significant neurological damage. But the irony is, Dr. Finley might have been onto something all along. We've gone through his case files and there's something there. Using DBS to cure PTSD is not so far-fetched after all.”

Carrie's composure cracked again, and she took a moment to recover. David gripped her hand tighter, but the heavy sadness felt like a boulder on her chest.

“I know it sounds horrible to say, but I'd rather you and the others didn't die in vain. And I guess on that note, I have some more good news to share. I matched with a residency program at the Cleveland Clinic. I'll be starting in September, and they want me to continue work on treating PTSD and other trauma using DBS. I've given this a lot of thought, and I've decided I'm not going to back away. There's an answer to the problem, a way to do the treatment that's safe and effective. It'll take years, and lots of hard work to figure it out, but the effort will pay off one day, I know it. What these people did was horrible, beyond words, but I'm choosing to blame the doctors, not the medicine.”

Carrie leaned her head on David's shoulder as a strong wind kicked up. She brushed the hair from her face and gave a strained smile.

“I feel the wind. Is that you talking, Adam? I sure hope so. I hope you approve. Anyway, I think about you every day. Mom and Dad do, too. We all love you so much.”

Carrie shut her eyes tight, but those tears leaked out anyway. After a few minutes, she and David turned and walked over to where Howard and Irene stood, and all four embraced.

“We'll meet you for dinner later?” Irene asked, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief.

“Yeah,” Carrie said. “Just text me the place and the time and we'll be there.”

Howard leaned over to kiss Carrie on the forehead, and pulled her into his arms. “I love you so much, kiddo,” he said in a shaky voice. “I'm so proud to call you my daughter.”

Carrie hugged her father hard as she ever had. Then they were apart, two pairs headed for separate cars. Howard and Irene got into their sedan, while Carrie climbed into the driver's seat of Adam's fire-red Camaro, with David taking the passenger seat beside her. The car had made the long journey from Hopkinton to D.C. without one mechanical problem. Evidently, Adam needed inspiration to get it working right, and watching out for his sister's safety had provided more than enough.