Dark Passage
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
An excerpt from Malice by Griffin Hayes
An excerpt from Hive by Griffin Hayes
DARK PASSAGE
Copyright © 2011 Griffin Hayes
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover design by Kit Foster
Proofread by Diana Cox
Ebook creation by Dellaster Design
Also by Griffin Hayes
Novels
Malice
Dark Passage
Novellas
Bird of Prey
Hive
Short Stories
The Second Coming
The Grip
Chapter 1
The boy sat on a plastic covered couch, watching a plastic covered TV, in a plastic covered house. He was a smart boy. Smart enough to know the show he was watching was called Looney Tunes and perhaps even smarter still because he knew that Bugs Bunny was about to get the better of that dim-witted Elmer Fudd again. Elmer had made the silly mistake of taking a nap in the woods and a big billowing dream cloud was floating serenely above his head. Bugs saw the cloud and crawled into it with a giant can of paint in his hand.
Nightmare paint.
He was going to turn the pudgy hunter’s nice dreams into awful ugly dreams filled with monsters with claws and long pointed teeth. Of course none of this had happened yet. Although he knew it would since he’d seen this episode three times already.
The boy shifted, and the plastic covered couch let out a groan, one that sounded an awful lot like the groan in his tummy. His usual breakfast was waiting for him in the fridge. His mother had prepared it before leaving to take care of Mr. Tanner for the day. Mr. Tanner, she’d told him, had something called cancer. In six months he would be dead. That was when she’d taken the boy by the shoulders. Most important of all, she had said, the disease eating away at Mr. Tanner’s body was not contagious and when Mr. Tanner died, so too would the disease.
The boy’s father was also gone to work, but even when he was home, he seemed something of a ghost, floating from room to room, like Casper. Invisible and powerless.
The boy was almost halfway to the kitchen when he stopped and skittered to the wall and pressed his back up against the cold wood paneling. Mommy had rules on where you could and couldn’t walk in the house, and the middle of the living room was a big no-no. He had a vague idea that it had something to do with the ‘germs’ Mommy was always talking about.
Hugging the wall, he slowly made his way to the fridge. That was where his breakfast was waiting for him, covered three times over with Saran Wrap: a piece of boiled ham, cold bread and a glass of grapefruit juice. The taste of all three was so awful he had thrown them into the trash once. Stuffed them right to the bottom so she wouldn’t know what he had done. But somehow she had known, the way she seemed to know a lot of things, and when she was through with him, he’d never done it again.
“Maybe one day when you have children of your own, you’ll understand how much I love you,” she’d told him. But before he could promise he would never do it again, the pain had made the world go black.
After he’d finished eating and setting his dishes aside to be sterilized, he returned—hugging the wall like a good boy—to the living room. His cartoon was over and on the television now was a boring-looking show where a man in a gray suit was talking about how some people called the Russians were doing bad things in a country called Afghanistan.
The smell of pine trees hit him just then and pulled his attention toward the impossibly long hallway and the room nestled at the end of it. The room that was locked and OFF LIMITS. The one he was never to enter under any circumstance. The room that would make Mommy very upset if she ever saw him go inside. The room where the monster lived.
She kept the key in the top drawer of her dresser and must have thought that was a secret enough place that he’d never find it. But he had found it, by accident. He was looking for his Han Solo and Chewbacca action figures. The ones she’d taken away to punish him for walking in the middle of the living room. When he had started crying, she’d torn Han’s left arm off just to let him know how serious she was.
The tears had stopped.
He’d opened the drawer and hadn’t found a single sign of Han or Chewy, but he did find a key. A long, thin and old looking metal key with two teeth and a large gap that looked an awful lot like the gap in Goofy’s smile.
The smell of pine trees became stronger now. A smell similar to when Mommy cleaned the kitchen floor, but somehow this was different. The smell was coming from that room, and it was as though a whole forest was growing in there. He imagined opening the door and finding himself at the great base of hundred-foot trees that went sprawling through the ceiling and stretched up into the clouds. He wondered what he might find when he climbed to the top.
But the boy knew well enough there weren’t really hundred-foot trees growing in that room. Because that was where the monster lived. His mother would tell him about it every night as she put him to bed. How she had to keep the door locked tight because the creature was always scratching to get out. How his claws were long and sharp, and she swore that on the quietest nights, if he held his breath, he might just hear nails scrapping against the door.
“Does he eat little boys?” the boy had asked.
“Oh yes.”
“Would he eat me?”
“Certainly.”
“And you would let him?”
“Boys who listen to their mothers have nothing to worry about. Boys who misbehave…well, that’s another story.”
“Have you seen him?”
“Many times.”
The boy’s mouth fell open. “What does he look like?”
His mother’s face darkened. “I’ll tell you. He has smooth skin like worn leather and eyes the deepest black you’ve ever seen. His arms are spindly, but strong and he uses the claws at the end of them to drag himself along the floor.
“His legs?”
“He doesn’t have any. Not the way you and I have legs. All he has is a short fleshy tail.”
He cowered beneath the covers, “No more, please.”
“But I haven’t told you about his teeth yet.” Her eyes were sh
ining.
The boy left the couch, shivering from the memory. He started toward his mother’s room and the key she kept there and that’s when he stopped dead. He blinked long and hard more than once just to be sure he wasn’t seeing things.
The door at the end of the hallway was open. The door to the monster’s room. Not much more than a sliver, but it was open and the boy was suddenly gripped with fear.
He stood for a long time watching, but the door didn’t move. Not even a little bit, and from here it looked like there was something on the ground in front of it, two objects lying just inside the crack. He took a step closer to get a better look. Then another.
From here those shapes looked an awful lot like Han and Chewy. Then a thought occurred to the young boy. Maybe that room wasn’t where a monster lived at all. Maybe this was where his mother kept all the toys she’d taken from him. Maybe it was all make believe so he wouldn’t go inside and find all of his favorite things.
With a sudden burst of courage, the boy tiptoed down the hallway, feeling the rough carpet biting into the balls of his feet like hundreds of little knives. He made sure to watch the door. Any sign of movement, he told himself, even the slightest sway, and he would run.
The wooden door was tall and brown, with chips of paint peeling off it. The knob was metallic and dull; not polished to a brilliant shine the way the rest of the house seemed to shine.
Suddenly the door moved and the boy’s whole body froze. Icy fingers were crawling up his spine, leaving his hands feeling cold and tingly. The breath was catching in his throat and now he was sucking in air. Lungful after lungful and yet it still never quite felt like enough. Dangling around his neck from a piece of frayed packing rope was his asthma pump. The boy brought it to his lips, depressed the button and all at once his face began to relax.
The door before him stood motionless. But by now he’d already made up his mind. He wasn’t going in.
He reached out to pull the door shut and then stopped himself.
What if Han and Chewy really were in there, waiting to be rescued? The thought was almost too much to ignore and the more his child’s mind entertained the possibility, the more sense it seemed to make. And with that, he placed his little hand against the peeling paint and pushed at the door until it creaked open.
Inside, the monster stirred.
Chapter 2
Present Day
Self-righteous prick. That was Tyson Barrett’s first impression upon shaking Dr. Charles Stevens’ hand; a limp and pale thing that Stevens had left dangling between them like a length of loose rope. Even the walls of his spacious office made the man look like a name dropping bore. A diploma from Harvard Medical School. Behind Stevens, a picture of Bill Clinton and him shaking hands. Another with Benjamin Netanyahu.
Tyson wished he could say he didn’t care what Stevens thought of him. Wished he could even say he didn’t care if he made it through what was turning out to be a bitch of a screening process. He had a hard time identifying with prissy little men like Charles Stevens, and as much as he hated being made to feel somehow inferior, he knew he needed the man. Far more than the man needed him.
The reason was simple. Tyson hadn’t copped a full night’s sleep in what was coming on six months now. This study was his last hope. He was desperate. As much as he hated the word, Tyson Barrett was desperate with a capital D.
Perhaps it was that desperation that was making him sweat so much—the navy blue shirt he was wearing had dark patches at the armpits and a long, wide son of a bitch running down his back.
Stevens motioned to the chair on the other side of his desk and Tyson sat down, feeling a long winding creak of tension crawl up from the base of his spine.
“As you’ve no doubt gathered by now, I’m the coordinator here at the facility. We’re conducting phase II clinical trials on Noxil for Sino-Meck.”
That self important look was back on Stevens’ face and Tyson did everything he could to smile and nod.
“Phase II is where we take people like yourself, who are suffering symptoms of anxiety, and see what effect the drug—”
“Nightmares. I mean…this will get rid of my nightmares, right?”
“Noxil is designed to treat PTSD.”
“PTSD?”
Stevens smirked the way a lord might smirk at a simple minded peasant. “Of course. I forgot. Post-traumatic Stress Disorder.”
“But it’ll cure my nightmares?”
There was a momentary look of annoyance on Stevens’ face before it vanished. “That’s what we’re hoping for.” Stevens paused and Tyson couldn’t help but notice the doctor scanning his face, noting the heavy purple bags under his eyes.
“You did read the study requirements, I assume,” Stevens said casually.
Tyson was pulling at the cuff of his shirt, trying to give his armpits a bit of breathing room. “Sure.”
“Then I’m assuming you saw that we’re looking for subjects between the ages of eighteen and thirty-seven. It says here you just celebrated your thirty-eighth birthday.”
“I can tell you it wasn’t much of a celebration.” Tyson was trying to smile but wasn’t having much luck.
Stevens stood. “I’m so sorry.”
Tyson rose to his feet in a single stiff motion. “Sorry?”
“You no longer qualify.”
“But I’m only out by six days. My birthday was less than a week ago. Please.”
Stevens began moving for the door and Tyson stood in his way. “Doctor, I’m begging you. I’m at the tail end here. My life’s a wreck. If I don’t get this study…” Tears were welling up in Tyson’s puffy eyes. He looked down and saw his hands clamped around Stevens’ shoulders. He removed them one at a time and straightened the man’s lab coat. “I haven’t had a proper night’s sleep in months.” Tyson could see it in the doctor’s eyes how much he loved that sliver of power, but for Tyson things had transcended mere ego.
“This would be a major infraction,” Stevens began.
Tyson wiped at his eyes with the palms of his hands. “I won’t tell a soul, I swear.”
Slowly, Stevens returned to his chair and eased back into it. “There is something I’m legally obliged to tell you.”
Tyson raised his eyebrows. Oh no, he thought, feeling that glimmer of hope inching from his grasp again. They know I’ve lied on my application, and all that begging didn’t accomplish more than making Stevens feel like some big shot.
“There is some red tape Sino-Meck is trying to overcome with the government. A formality at most, I assure you.”
“I’m not sure I follow.”
“Final approval from the FDA and our local IRB hasn’t arrived yet. You see, most drugs have some pretty nasty side effects. I’m sure you’ve seen some of the commercials they’re putting on television these days.”
“Christ, who hasn’t?” Tyson tried to laugh, but it sounded stilted and forced.
Stevens was examining something on the nail of his index finger. “You tamper with the body’s chemistry and side effects tend to occur. At the end of the day, what the IRB and our friends at the FDA have to consider is whether the benefits of a given drug outweigh its harmful effects. It’s a pretty simple equation really.”
“Yeah, I’m sure it is. I think I understand what you’re saying. If I start taking Noxil, I may grow a pair of tits or my balls might swell to the size of grapefruits, right?”
Stevens smiled, this time genuinely and Tyson wondered whether his face was going to crack.
“No, our problem is quite different. You see, Noxil has no side effects.”
Tyson’s back straightened against the chair. “No side effects? Is that possible? Not even cotton mouth, profuse sweating, nausea…heart palpitations?”
“You seem to know your drugs, Mr. Barrett.”
Tyson’s eyes flickered with momentary guilt. He had let his guard down and he was angry at himself for doing it. One more missed step and he was out.
“It is har
d to believe, I agree, and this is precisely why the FDA is dragging its feet. We’ve been given a conditional green light to proceed, but we’ve been instructed to inform all potential patients that the study’s final approval is still pending.”
Tyson nodded. “I understand.”
“Now, there are a few things about your medical form we need to go over.”
The knot of tension was creeping back into Tyson’s neck.
“You say here,” Stevens began, “that you’re not on any other prescription medication.”
“That’s right,” Tyson said, feeling the lie roll off his tongue with surprising ease.
“And no existing medical conditions.”
“Clean as a whistle.” Tyson could feel the asthma pump in this jean pocket pushing against his leg and for a panicked moment he was sure Stevens could see it.
“Here’s the problem, when we tell the FDA there are no side effects that we know of, it’s implied the patients aren’t on any other medication. If that’s happening it muddles our results and puts the patients at…risk. You understand of course.”
Tyson was doing his best not to think about how the medicine cabinet in his bathroom was filled to the brim with enough meds to keep an entire family in tip-top shape for a year.
“Have you ever participated in a clinical trial before, Mr. Barrett?”
“Never.” This time he was telling the truth.
“You seem like a very honest person. It’s not people like you we’re trying to screen for really.” Stevens leaned in. “It’s the serial drug testers. They’re a growing problem in the industry and something we’ve been battling for years.”