The Brain Parasites, Part Five

So at 11:30 Rachel and I were sitting in a coffee bar In Oak Park. The Bean. Rachel had a small latté. I had a large dark coffee, black. I wasn’t sure I wanted to go to sleep tonight.

            “So, this Terri?” Rachel sipped her latté. “I only got a quick look at her, but she saw you in bed. Is she cute?”

            Rachel still gets jealous. I kind of liked it. “Well, I was mostly dressed, but she did have to attach electrodes to my chest. Still, she seemed immune to my manly physique. Aside from that—wait, here she is. See for yourself.”

            Terri walked quickly to our table. “Thanks.”

            I stood up. “This is Rachel. She’s my associate. Rachel, Terri.”

            They looked each other over warily, then shook hands. “Nice to meet you.”

Terri sat down and rubbed her nose. “Look, I know what they’re doing. I tried to ignore it, because I really need this job—I’m a single mother with two kids, and they really do help people. The doctors, I mean. But the others—I started seeing them come in at night, sleepwalking? I asked Dr. Reid, but he just said it was all part of the treatment.”

            “What exactly do you know?”

            She lowered her head and her voice. “The brain parasites?”

            “Hang on.” Rachel leaned forward and planted a hand on Terri’s forehead. “This will just take a second.”

            “it’s okay,” I said. “She’s psychic.”

Terri didn’t look at me as if I were crazy. But then, she knew about the seshai.

            Rachel drew her hand away. “You don’t have one.”

            “No!” Terri shook her head. “But I did. Noah—Dr. Usher took it out.”

            The seshai could be forced out? Relief surged in my body. “How?”

            Rachel leaned forward. “Why you?”

            “The sleep machine? You can program it to pull the thing out with a different tape. Noah keeps it in his office. We, uh . . .” Her face flushed.

            Rachel smirked. “You’re doing it, aren’t you? You and Usher.”

            “So what?” She looked defiant. “I’m an adult. Dating is a pit with two kids. Look at your boyfriend. He’s old.”

            What? Okay, I’m in my forties, and Rachel was 34 or so, but that didn’t mean . . .

“Wait, wait!” I waved my hands before a catfight sprang out between them. Which Rachel would totally have won. “How did it happen? I mean . . .” I gulped my coffee. “When did the seshai get inside you?”

            Terri’s head drooped down. “Dr. Reid did it. It was kind of creepy. He said it was part of working at the clinic. But it wasn’t .. .  I mean, he didn’t do anything, but . . .”

 Then she leaned back again, wiping her forehead. “Then a few months later Noah took it out. . . I mean—from my brain . . .”

            “Why?” Rachel cocked her head. “Because he loves you?”

            Terri scowled. “I told him I’d tell his wife.”

            “Wait—” I stared at her. “Everyone at the clinic? Not just the patients? The staff?”

            “Some of us. After a few months, the people who stay. Dr. Reid said it would help us with the patients better. It didn’t hurt or anything. And Dr. Reid never—touched me inappropriately, or anything.” She crossed her arms. “It was before Noah and I . . . started.”

            “How nice.” Rachel sat back, but she looked ready to spring across the table at her. “Will that work for Tom?”

            Terri reached into her pocket and dropped a flash drive on the table. “Download the .mpg file into the Nyx—there’s a port on the side—and put it on the violet setting.” She started to stand.

            “Hang on.” Rachel grabbed her arm. “What about everyone else?”

            Terri stared at her. “What can I do about them?”

            I waved for Rachel to let go before anyone started filming us on their phone. “Get me their email addresses. The employees, too.”

            “I can’t—” She sat down again. “That’s not easy. And tomorrow’s my day off.”

            “Then do it Friday morning. Unless you want Noah’s wife to get a phone call.” I hated to do it, but it was the only thing I could think of. Aside from firebombing the place, which I didn’t really want to do.

             “You bastard. This will ruin the clinic.” She glared at me and Rachel. “I need this job!”

             “Spare me.” I shook my head. “I’m not the guy who put a brain parasite into dozens of s heads. Your job has killed at least two people. Who are the real bastards, Terri?”

            Okay, so I was sounding a little more tough-guy than I usually do. But I was scared, and channeling my inner Humphrey Bogart helped.

            She stood up again. “Fine. Friday morning. I was just trying to help.”

            Rachel smiled. “You are.”

            “Is she telling the truth?” I asked as she stalked out the door.

            She nodded. “It should work.”

            I picked up the flash drive. “Let’s go home and try it out.”

FRIDAY, OCT. 26

Rachel ran her hands across my scalp while I was eating cereal. It felt kind of nice. Then she kissed me. That felt nice too. Then she said, “It’s gone.”

            That felt the best of all.

            We’d managed to download the audio file into the Nyx, and slept with it for two nights. It actually helped me sleep. But I was going to throw the machine away as soon as I could, after taking it apart and smashing it to bits with an ax that Rachel had bought a few months ago.

Terri sent me an email at 11 a.m. The subject line: NOW GO AWAY!!! It contained names and email addresses for 42 people.

I spent an hour setting up a group email with the audio file attached. Subject Line: DO NOT GO BACK TO THE REID CLINIC.

            The message:

You have been infected with a parasite in your brain because of sleep treatments you received at the Reid Sleep Clinic. This parasite compels you to return to the clinic often, sometimes late at night when you’re unconscious or sleepwalking, for additional “treatments,” and may cause you to meet with others in a group elsewhere, also late at night and outside. Not keeping up these treatments and meetings can cause a cerebral hemorrhage that may kill you.

The attached .mpg file, played on your Nyx sleep machine from the Reid clinic at the “violet” setting, will eradicate the parasite. Play it for several nights.

This sounds crazy, but I speak from experience. Call the clinic. Ask about the seshai. Protect yourself. Please.

I sent it from one of the email accounts Rachel helped me set up for anonymity. It wasn’t perfect, but Rachel’s pretty smart about this kind of stuff.

I sipped some coffee, reread the email, and then hit “Send.”

Then I made a call.

“Reid Sleep Clinic, may I help you?”

It was Terri, but I kept my voice professional. “May I speak to Dr. Usher, please?”

She hesitated. “He’s, uh, with a patient. Who—who should I say is calling?”

“Tom Jurgen. He’ll want to talk to me.”

“Uhh . . . one moment, please.”

Two minutes later Usher picked up. “What is it?”

“Hi, Dr. Usher. I just sent an email to 42 of your patients and employees who have been infected by the seshai, along with an audio file that will push the seshai out of their heads. You should expect a lot of phone calls soon, and a bunch of patients and employees quitting. Plus, you might want to consider getting rid of the seshai in your own head. If you can.”

I’d never heard actual sputtering before. “Wait—how—where did you get any names? What file?”

“I know how to do a few things, Dr. Usher. Maybe I can’t call the cops on you, but all of this could make it very difficult for you to stay in business. You could sue me, I guess, but it would be a very interesting discovery process, don’t you think?”

He took a deep breath. “You think anyone will believe you?”

“You’ll find out when your phone starts ringing.” I hung up.

I could be a world of trouble here. But it was better than having the seshai feeding on my brain. Or anyone else’s.

Rachel turned around in her chair. “How’d that go?”

I scratched my scalp. “Are you sure I’m okay?”

“You just want another kiss, don’t you? Jerk.” But Rachel stood up. She was wearing yoga pants and a black tank top. I tried not to stare.

She pressed her hands against my head. “You need a haircut. Or is this just an excuse to make out?”

I wished. “Give me a minute.” I picked up my phone again. I had to report to my client.

The phone buzzed once. Twice. “H-hello?”

Jolene Beckham. “Hi, Ms. Beckham. It’s Tom Jurgen here. I have some news . . .”

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