Jack had once written a thesis on the correlation between PTSD symptoms in U.S. military veterans and pharmaceutical influences. In addition to discussing various battlefield factors, he had also touched upon the controversial role certain medications might play in exacerbating symptoms.
The paper had received high praise from his beloved Professor Cahill—and then was promptly shelved.
There's no helping it. In a country that prided itself on "freedom," there may not be censorship per se, but if you were a federal employee and had the guts to openly criticize Big Pharma, you might as well kiss your career goodbye.
Sure, it might not be very "protagonist-like" and could feel suffocating at times, but just like that towering loner Reacher, who disbanded his elite 110th special investigations unit under military pressure, sometimes resistance meant resignation.
A lone hero is, by definition, someone with nothing left to lose—much like Jack's favorite Marvel antihero: the Punisher.
But admiration was one thing; reality was another. Reacher hadn't been pushed quite that far yet—let alone Jack. On the contrary, thanks to his understanding of this odd fusion world, Jack was doing quite well for himself.
So whether it was based on the countless depictions of PTSD in American dramas or from his own clinical training as a halfway-qualified psychologist, Jack immediately understood what Brian Palmer's wife meant.
"Alcohol abuse, substance dependence, unprovoked rage, and depressive tendencies. Right?" Jack asked gently.
Mrs. Palmer looked at him in surprise, then nodded with some difficulty. It wasn't easy to admit, but she seemed both stunned and relieved by Jack's understanding.
"I know Brian didn't want to be like that. But sometimes, he just couldn't control his urges. So he'd lock himself in a room for days without speaking to anyone—he was afraid he might hurt me or the kids.
It was awful, but we were trying. Especially Brian. After he moved out, he really started making changes. He followed a strict no-alcohol plan. Threw out all his pain meds.
I remember the last time we spoke, he smiled and said he was feeling better. He said we'd be back to how things used to be soon…"
Her voice trembled, but she forced herself not to cry—trying not to attract her children's attention. Just then, a nurse in full protective gear walked up to the room. She wore goggles and a 3M mask and announced she was there to collect blood samples, cutting the conversation short.
Realizing there wasn't much more to learn, Jack and Danny took their leave.
While they had been speaking with Mrs. Palmer, Danny had already texted the "Wavecrest Motel" info to Kono back at HQ. So by the time they arrived, CDC personnel had already completed decontamination procedures and taped off the motel room with red quarantine tape.
It wasn't a bad place, all things considered—decent for a budget motel. There was even a surprisingly clean outdoor pool, where a CDC worker was currently drawing water samples.
As they walked, Danny pulled out gloves and a mask. "What do you think about me sending Rachel and Grace to the mainland for a few days?"
"Just treat it like a vacation. Tell them to avoid too much contact with strangers. If they don't have anywhere in mind, they can crash in L.A. I've got plenty of friends there who'll help out."
Jack didn't think it was overkill. Back when the hemorrhagic fever attack hit Los Angeles, the first thing the Wilshire precinct officers did was warn their families.
"Nah, I'll just have them stay with my folks in Jersey. I'm booking the earliest flight," Danny replied, quickly typing on his phone.
Jack handed him an evidence bag and gestured for him to drop the phone inside. Since smallpox was primarily spread by contact, a phone could be an ideal transmission vector—and an easy one to overlook.
"You sure it's safe for us to go in there?" Danny asked nervously as they reached the door.
Jack sniffed the faint scent of disinfectant in the air and gave him a reassuring look. "Smallpox only infects humans. It can't replicate in nature or survive in open air."
Inside, CDC personnel were busy sealing all the bedding and clothing into biohazard-marked bags and dousing the mattress with disinfectant.
Though the virus couldn't survive airborne for long, it could stay active on clothing and dry dust for over a year. Back in the colonial era, infected blankets and handkerchiefs were genocidal tools against Native Americans.
"This doesn't look like much of a 'dark place' to me," Danny remarked, eyeing the two large sealed bags of personal items and scanning the surprisingly tidy room.
CDC had been careful to preserve the scene as much as possible. The room was spotless—no cigarette butts, no empty liquor bottles, no junk strewn about. Not at all what you'd expect from a struggling ex-soldier living alone.
"Twelve Steps," Jack said, pointing to a printout taped to the closet door. "Looks like Palmer was genuinely trying, just like his wife said."
Danny opened the mini-fridge and found some shriveled apples, moldy whole wheat bread, and a jar of jam. He nodded approvingly. "Dude even ate healthy—well, what we used to call healthy."
Thanks to Jack's earlier rant on Western dietary misconceptions, Danny's whole concept of "healthy food" had been upended.
Jack checked the bathroom cabinet and, as expected, found no medications. Palmer really had been making an effort. Which only deepened the mystery—why had he vanished without a trace?
"Uh… Jack?" Danny called from the fridge. His voice was shaky. "You think it's possible… Palmer did it to himself?"
"What?" Jack's eyes widened as he turned to see Danny holding a plastic container—inside were two small vials of liquid and several disposable syringes.
—
"I swear, I felt like I was holding a nuclear launch trigger," Danny grumbled, vigorously scrubbing his arms while urging Jack to pour more alcohol on him.
"The label said 'Cyclotriptine,' right? I looked it up—it's an experimental antidepressant still in clinical trials."
Jack had tried to calm him, but it clearly hadn't worked. Danny spotted a small bump on his arm and turned pale. "Do you see that? What is that?"
"A mosquito bite," Jack replied dryly.
Apparently, his not-so-old "uncle" had some serious hidden talent as a comic relief character.
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