The Rasner Effect

By Mark Rosendorf

Rick Rasner escaped death in a New York City bridge explosion—but he couldn't escape becoming an unwitting participant in a top secret military experiment. Seven years later, while working at an institution for troubled children, Rick finds himself the target of a group of mercenaries called The Duke Organization. When they meet, the life of Rick Rasner, and the lives of the Duke Organization, will change forever...but not as much as that of fifteen year old, Clara Blue. Pulled into a world of violence, can Clara escape, or will she choose to stay?

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Wild Rose Press
• Release date: May 2, 2014
• ISBN: 9781628302653

Mark Rosendorf

Mark Rosendorf is a High School Guidance Counselor for students with special needs in the New York City Department of Education. He is also a former professional magician. Mark shares his knowledge of magic with his students as part of the school’s Performing Arts program. He uses stage magic to help teach teamwork and build confidence in his students. Mark is also credited with published novels in various genres including The Rasner Effect series. He eventually decided on an early retirement from writing. When asked why, Mark’s usual answer was because he lost his favorite pen. Then, one night, at two a.m., a new and unique story shot into his brain like a lightning bolt, screaming for him to write it. Suddenly, despite the decision to never write again, Mark found himself spending several nights taking notes on the characters and their stories. That is how The Witches of Vegas was born and is now on these pages. This is Mark’s first young adult novel.

Book preview

Inc.

The Rasner Effect

by

Mark Rosendorf

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either 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.

The Rasner Effect

COPYRIGHT © 2014 by Mark Rosendorf

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Contact Information: [e-mail]

Cover Art by RJ Morris

The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

PO Box 708

Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

Publishing History

First Crimson Mainstream Rose Edition, 2014

Print ISBN 978-1-62830-264-6

Digital ISBN 978-1-62830-265-3

Published in the United States of America

Praise for THE RASNER EFFECT

...a fast action-packed second half with a first half that gets you totally immersed in the characters. This is a must read for all suspense & thriller lovers.

~Monica Garcia, Reading with Monie

~*~

"Meet Rick Rasner: compassionate counselor or psychotic assassin? Likeable or despicable?

Find a comfy chair and strap yourself in for an electric jolt from a new writer who, I hope, will thrill us again soon."

~Susan Whitfield, author of the Logan Hunter series

~*~

The author’s detailed study into the delusional world of the criminally insane...fills the reader with a dread that there may actually be people with the same traits in the real world. This was a quick read that compelled me to read compulsively until finished.

~Pat, Book Sake Reviews

~*~

"...a multifaceted psychological thriller peopled with convincing characters, packed with gritty, pithy discourse all set against a backdrop of trickery, maneuvering and danger. The outcome of this narrative may surprise readers, and will indisputably cause reader speculation re who really is the good guy, and who is not."

~Molly Martin, Midwest Book Reviews

Dedication

To Mom and Dad, who gave me life,

and to my fiancée, Sue, who makes life worth living.

Prologue

Chaos was the only word Jake Scarberry could think of to describe his situation. The panicked screams of civilians running for their lives echoed all along the expressway. A bit further away, the symphony of screams melded with the honking of unsuspecting commuters stuck in a logjam of traffic. Jake stood alone on the bridge, the heat already seeping through his thin-soled boots. Black smoke, trapped beneath low-hanging clouds, filled his lungs and nostrils. It was five p.m., but today everything seemed darker than normal.

Despite the explosion, the bridge connecting the boroughs of Queens and the Bronx remained standing and Jake was glad about that. He certainly had no interest in experiencing the long drop into the East River if the bridge were to collapse. He couldn’t remember the name of the bridge, but that was the least of his concerns at the moment. The important thing was surviving a battle that obviously wasn’t over yet, not with the pair of determined and psychotic dark blue eyes staring at him through the haze.

The man, smaller and years younger, inched his way forward, sidestepping abandoned cars with a single-minded focus. At one juncture, he disappeared in a cloud of smoke. When it cleared, he gripped a tire iron like a spear in his right hand. In his left, he still held the small black detonator box.

If I’m going down, the man shouted, then so are you. This is not over!

Was another charge about to detonate? Had he mistakenly assumed this to be a diversion so the rest of his group could escape? Jake guessed it didn’t matter right now.

Keeping his eyes on the man, he used one hand to remove the burnt and still smoking Kevlar vest. Smoke wafted from his adversary too, yet no pain showed on the man’s face. Was he a good actor or had he somehow remained uninjured in the horrifying blast?

Jake clenched his fists and prepared for what could quite possibly be both their final battles—the assassin because he’d been paid to do a job, Jake because he’d been hired to stop this group called The Duke Organization.

First, he had to go through this man. He stood fifteen feet away now.

Jake’s head spun. His throat and lungs burned with the acrid smoke. His knees wobbled like jelly—instinct screamed to grab hold of something solid. But that would show weakness to his adversary.

Ten feet away. How much longer could he keep from passing out? He had no weapon save his fists. What defense would they be against the tire iron?

Six feet. The blue eyes burned with hate. And something else—victory.

Not yet! Jake managed to keep himself from shouting.

Through the cloud, three soldiers in full military gear appeared. One aimed a pistol and fired a shot to the back of the man’s head. With an expression of surprise, he collapsed in a heap. The detonator flew from his fingers. It bounced twice. Jake braced himself for another explosion.

None came. A fog crossed in front of his brain and he felt himself falling.

****

Jake struggled to open his eyes, defying their insistence on remaining closed. No longer on the bridge…that was obvious. The smell had changed from acrid to the sharp pungency of ammonia. But more than that, the hard bridge pavement was now soft, yielding. At last he squinted his eyes open enough to see white, lots of it. Hospital, his brain whispered. Something moved. It was white also, and closer. And it had breasts. Nurse.

Jake tried to sit up. The same time the nurse said, Stay on your back or you’ll be sick, nausea struck. Like a train it roared over him, smashing and splattering in its wake. The nurse shoved something under his chin. For a long time, he dry-heaved. He swallowed the last of the bile that seemed to burn more going down than it had coming up. She shoved a damp cloth into his palm. He scrubbed it across his mouth, looking down so he wouldn’t have to see the pity on her face. Shit, he’d never barfed in front of a woman before.

He fell back on the bed, eyes closed to the humiliation. The blanket shifted over him. You’re doing pretty good considerin’ the beatin’ you took.

Beat… Then he remembered. The bridge. The explosion. The Duke Organization. His employers, the United States government, hired him to stop a fellow group of mercenaries from accomplishing their mission. How long…

Almost a week.

Damn. The Duke Organization must be in shambles by now. Little by little, his vision cleared. The nurse finished hanging a plastic bag of something clear. He followed the length of tubing to the connector in the back of his hand. She tucked the covers once more, bending low. The name tag said Donna. The cleavage said deep…

You have a visitor. She gestured over her shoulder.

Jake turned his head, slow so his stomach wouldn’t erupt again. An obese gray-haired man stood on the right-hand side of the bed. He wore a general’s uniform with three stars along the right side of the collar. What was he doing here?

Straker.

"General Straker," he corrected.

What are you doing here?

Your mission is over, Mister Scarberry. We won’t be in need of your services any longer. The man shifted from one foot to the other. Needless to say, I am not entirely pleased with the results you achieved.

What about our bargain, General? Jake heard unmistakable hostility in his voice. Had Straker heard it too?

His expression never wavered. General William P. Straker was in his late 60s with short gray hair and a clean-shaven face, although Jake always thought the General would be better off with facial hair, to hide his double chin.

It will be honored, of course. It’s just a matter of working out a few details. I’m sorry your brother couldn’t be here to work out those details himself.

So was Jake; it would be nice to see a friendly face right about now. What about the rest of the group? If they’re still out there, you have to hunt them down before…

The Duke Organization is crippled and in disarray. We have effectively cut off one of the primary heads of the dragon. The General’s tone made it apparent he didn’t expect a debate on the issue. They’re on our radar. We know who they are, and now, they will need to stay in hiding. We don’t figure to hear from this group again.

But they’re crazy! Jake snapped, the rumble of bile churning into his throat. He made a conscious move to relax. You can’t predict the actions of crazy people. That’s what makes them crazy.

"I have bigger priorities right now. Starting with the victims of this bridge fiasco you did very little to prevent, Mister Scarberry."

Jake bit his lip as the general accented the last two words, as if his previous military record didn’t matter. I re-routed their target before the hit could take place, Jake reminded him. There’s no way I could have expected them to have a bomb on a crowded bridge, much less detonate it once they realized their mission was negated.

This case is closed. I assume you understand the necessity for secrecy on this subject?

I know the program, Straker! Just make sure I get what’s coming to me.

Not to worry, Mister Scarberry, you will…you will.

Jake didn’t like the way that sounded, but further argument would be counterproductive.

Now, if you will excuse me, I have other business in need of my attention. Straker spun on a heel. He stopped with a hand on the knob, but didn’t turn back around. Get dressed and get out. My people will be in touch with you shortly.

****

In a facility across town, Rick Rasner woke feeling groggy and confused. The florescent lights made it painful to open his eyes. He had no idea how long he had been unconscious, or why he found himself on a cot in what he assumed was a hospital room. As his vision cleared, he noticed a large, rectangular table with surgical equipment, syringes, laboratory glassware, and a weird looking electronic machine. He suddenly realized he was not in a hospital room at all. In fact, he had no idea where he was. There were two computers, each on a desk against the wall farthest from him. Rick squinted, but from this distance, he couldn’t make out what was on the flat-panel screens.

His head itched. He slipped his hand from under the stark, white sheet and scratched. Then he frowned and palmed his scalp. What the hell was going on? The whole right side of his head was shaved clean. Mirror, he needed a mirror. He flew to a sitting position, stopped to let the intense vertigo pass, then swung his leg over the edge of the bed. His left fist tightened, caused by an instinctive reaction when he realized he was not alone in the room.

You should remain still, said a soft voice from behind.

In the corner shadows sat a man wearing a white lab coat buttoned to the neck. He had a pair of reading glasses perched on the end of his nose. He dipped his head to gaze over the frame and repeated his recommendation.

You should remain still. He leaned forward in the chair and came into better light. He looked to be middle-aged. Long silver hair was streaked with black, and so was the well-trimmed goatee. He probably weighed about 180, with the paunch and skin tone of a man who spent most of his time indoors.

Where am I? Rick asked, his voice raspy, unused. How the hell long had he been here? He caught a glimpse of himself in the sheen of one of the big pieces of equipment. What had happened to his hair? He was supposed to have some, but for the life of him couldn’t recall what color it was.

What’s wrong? the visitor asked in a tone that suggested it wasn’t the first time.

I don’t know. Rick eased back on the pillow and pulled the sheet up over his bare knees. God, he hated these stupid hospital shirts.

To answer your question, you’re in a military facility. My name is Doctor Obenchain. Do you know who you are? He shifted something in his lap, a clipboard with a notepad stuck on by the big metal clip. The doctor held up his hand and let a pencil dance across the backs of his knuckles.

Of course I know who I am. My name is… Though he’d sounded certain, even to his own ears, suddenly Rick wasn’t a hundred percent sure. Rick. Rick Rasner. At least, I think that’s my name. He gripped his head between his hands. The whole right side bore stubble—several days’ worth. The shaved patch was about the size of his palm. The left side seemed to wear its normal hairstyle, though try as he might, Rick still couldn’t remember what color it was.

The doctor bent his head and scribbled some notes on the pad. Rick watched, as if maybe from the bed six feet away, he might read what Obenchain wrote. The doctor stopped writing and laid the pencil across the pad. He shot Rick a curious look. How old are you?

I-I’m not sure. He gave the question serious thought, but still couldn’t come up with the answer.

Where are you from?

Less thought was given this time. With each question, dread grew as he realized he didn’t know who he was. Well, he did, to a point. His name was Rick Rasner. But that was all he knew. He didn’t know his age, where he lived, or with whom he lived, if anyone.

Rick swung his left arm and slammed his fist into the mattress. Pain rocketed through his head, pulsing from one temple to the other. Then it stopped to be replaced with one pain. One grinding razor-sharp pain. It felt like someone was tightening a vice above his ears. He dropped his head onto the pillow and cupped his hands over his face. What was happening?

Rick pressed his index fingers into his temples. That seemed to ease the pressure a bit. His right index finger encountered a bump on his forehead. It wasn’t a normal bump, like he got the day he fell down the cellar steps. He refocused, trying to get an image of the steps, the house, the cellar, anything. Nothing.

He went back to examining the bump. It was more of a protuberance. Hard, like bone. About the size of a half-dollar.

You need to remain calm. It’s best if you lie back and relax. Rick tried to remember if he’d ever heard the man’s voice before, but that memory too, was gone. You’ve suffered severe frontal cranium damage. The bleeding could not be stopped and we had to operate in order to prevent permanent damage…or death.

Rick uncapped his hands and looked at the doctor. B-but, why can’t I… He cleared his throat. I can’t remember anything. The words came out shaky and hoarse.

As we expected, your injuries have affected some cognitive long-term memory as well. I’m sorry.

H-how the hell did this happen? Is it permanent? Suddenly, the second question took on more importance than the first. What if he never remembered who he was? What if he had a wife and family—kids?

Obenchain wrestled himself from the too-small wooden chair and crossed to the nearest computer. Let me show you. He didn’t turn on the machine, as Rick expected; he reached for a folded newspaper lying beside the monitor. With each step, Obenchain’s soles tapped on the metal floor. Metal? What hospital had metal floors? This thought became eclipsed by the newspaper shoved in his face. He snatched it from the man’s pudgy fingers. Rick hoped he hadn’t been the one to perform the surgery as he had serious doubts those fingers bore the dexterity to hold a scalpel.

Rick unfolded the paper. All at once, his arms grew too tired to hold up the paper. He laid it in his lap and leaned forward to read the headline. At the top was a black and white photo of a bridge. It looked like it had been blown up. In large letters the headline read, Devastation in New York.

You were in an automobile on the bridge when the explosion occurred. Your car was completely crushed. We pulled you out just in time. EMTs performed CPR on you all the way to the hospital. We lost your heartbeat more than once. You are a fortunate man. Believe me when I tell you, not many were so fortunate.

Rick’s stomach knotted at the sight of the picture. Even so, he continued staring at the headline and bridge, wishing, praying for some inkling, just a fragment of memory for the incident. He let go of his head and thumped a knuckle on the page. Who did this?

That information, as of now, must remain confidential. But rest assured, our people are doing all they can to capture the perpetrators.

Rick thrust the paper to the floor and watched the pages flutter apart. The throbbing had begun again. This time it was accompanied by severe lightheadedness. He pressed the heels of both hands to his temples.

Is it very bad? The doctor’s voice distorted as though spoken in a tunnel. The last word echoed—ba-a-a-a-ad.

Yes, very. He sucked in a breath. Why me?

Wrong place, wrong time. A minute before or after and it would’ve been someone else.

Family. Do I have a family? He tipped his head to peer at the doctor who’d returned to his chair. He wasn’t making eye contact. This didn’t bode well. I must have family, right?

Dr. Obenchain leaned ahead, placing his heavy elbows on thick thighs. You were carrying limited ID, Mister Rasner. You are twenty-six years old. Your only known relatives are a mother, a father and a brother, who was three years younger.

He didn’t miss the verb tense. Was? When no reply came, Rick said it louder, "Was?"

They were in the vehicle with you. I’m afraid your family did not survive.

Rick tried to picture his family, but their images wouldn’t come. He had nothing to base their possible looks on because the only thing he knew about his own appearance was one side of his head was bald. Suddenly, the notion made him chuckle. Four people in a car, cruising along the bridge—all four with shaved spots on one side.

What’s funny?

Rick started to shake his head, and stopped. The sound echoed between his ears like a can with marbles inside. Nothing is funny. Not a single goddamned thing.

Were you recalling something?

No, he said in lieu of shaking his head. I can’t recall anything.

There’s always a chance your memories could return over time. Obenchain tried to reassure him, but his words lacked conviction. Perhaps I could help you with that process.

Yes. I would really…appreciate that. What would it involve? Shock therapy? Endless photographs of his dead relatives? He unclenched his hands and dried the wet palms on his sheet. I need all the help I can get.

Chapter One

Seven Years Later

It was the first time he had been in the state of Pennsylvania—at least as far as he knew. From the outside, the Brookhill Children’s Psychiatric Residence looked mean and intimidating. Three stories of brick and narrow-barred windows shaped this image in Rick Rasner’s brain. Standing alone on a large Brookhill City acreage, the place looked isolated and unfriendly.

The guard just inside the front door said the psychiatric office was on the second floor and pointed to a thick metal panel at the end of a short hallway. It clanged shut behind him in such an airtight fashion he immediately found it hard to breathe. The stairwell was narrow, barely wide enough for two to pass without brushing shoulders. The stairs were old and deformed, made of clay warped from many years of use and neglect. The place smelled like damp papers and something else he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Rick rounded the first turn, claustrophobia clutching at his lungs. He broke into a jog.

He could only imagine how children brought to the facility must feel laying eyes on their new home. Of course, the children housed in the Brookhill Children’s Psychiatric Residence had very frightening reputations as well. Rick had very little experience, but he hoped it would be enough to handle his new job responsibilities. The one piece of advice his mentor gave was to think of the children sent here as dogs, and don’t show them fear. Rick wasn’t sure he liked the tone of that advice. Maybe he could temper it with his own personality.

The large cardboard box in his arms made it difficult for Rick to keep his balance and still maneuver up the stairs. He sighed in relief seeing the second ominous metal portal. It seemed fairly new in comparison to the surrounding walls.

He reached around the box, twisted the knob, then pushed with his shoulder, but it was locked from the opposite side. Rick rapped knuckles on it. Several seconds passed before he heard the rasp of a lock and the door swung open to reveal a tall man built like a football tackle. His stomach underneath the white button-down shirt protruded over the waist of his dark dress pants. He wore an old walkie-talkie attached to the belt.

His skin was extremely dark and the whites of his eyes had a reddish tint to them. Long black dreadlocks poked from under his cap and dangled across wide shoulders. He eyed Rick with suspicion.

Rick peered around the carton. Hi, I’m Rick Rasner. I’m starting work today.

The guard didn’t speak. He stood on tiptoe to examine the contents of Rick’s box.

Is there someplace I can put this down? Rick asked.

The officer shut and locked the door using an unusually large key at the end of a chain hanging around his neck. He gestured for Rick to follow down the long and narrow hallway, much like the stairwell. Many doors lined the hall, all only a few feet from each other. Did that mean the rooms were small, too? All the doors remained closed, except for one that opened as they passed. A rotund African-American woman emerged. She wore a similar uniform with handcuffs and a walkie-talkie attached to her black leather belt. She offered Rick a handshake, showing off unusually long fake fingernails.

Mr. Rasner? Did he detect a slight Jamaican accent?

Yes, that’s me. Rick offered a smile. He glanced around for a place to put down the box so he could shake her hand. He couldn’t find one so, he just stood there and nodded.

I’m Sharon Hefner, the head of security and discipline on this turf. Welcome aboard. She waved her hand, signaling Rick to follow her. Let me show you around, though there’s not much to see.

As they walked down the hallway, Rick glanced at the thick, clear plastic windows on the doors. Each had a lock under the knob that appeared to match the key the safety officer wore hanging around his neck. The doorknobs were abnormally large, like Rick expected they looked a century ago.

They stopped at the door Hefner had come through. She’d left it open. Inside, Rick saw what he presumed to be the facility’s office. The room had three desks, all adjacent to one another. Two were unoccupied; at the third, an older gray-haired woman typed away on a computer keyboard.

Rick peered through the window of the neighboring door. He saw what appeared to be a padded room and stopped in his tracks to get a good look, realizing that it, indeed, had floor-to-ceiling padding all the way around the room.

Hefner stopped walking too. "This is one of our seclusion rooms. We have one on each side of this hallway. We use these rooms when the kids wild out and refuse to get with the program." She tugged Rick’s sleeve.

He started walking again, but remained on-topic. Wild out?

Excuse me. Act up. Sometimes these kids go nuts. They practically bounce off the walls. You feel me now?

Rick nodded and followed her down the hallway. Exactly what issues do these children have?

If they end up here with us, they have plenty. These are kids with histories of violence and/or emotional impairment. And some are just plagues on society. You get what I’m saying?

Rick nodded. He had very little idea of what children could do to be considered plagues on society.

Are the patients all from Pennsylvania?

Some are, mainly they’re from Philly. We tend to get a lot from New York and a few from Jersey. It’s a deal worked out between the states. I’m not sure of the details, but I’m sure it has something to do with money. Don’t it always?

Hefner gave him a knowing smile. He faked a laugh in return. Who places the kids here?

The courts mandate some, while others are sent here by their own families because they just can’t deal with them anymore. It’s our job to rehabilitate whomever we can, or, if we can’t, at least we keep them off the streets.

How much of a success rate do you have? Rick questioned.

It happens once in a while, but considering their backgrounds and the environments they come from, Hefner’s head drooped slightly, you can’t expect too many happy endings.

I’m sorry to hear that. Rick liked being successful at things he did. He liked seeing results from his hard work.

I’m even sorrier for their parents and guardians. But when you raise a bad kid, that’s how things roll, right?

I’m sure it’s difficult for them as well.

Yeah, I’m sure it is nowadays. It’s just not like it was when we were kids, am I right or what, Mister Rasner?

Rick didn’t respond. Instead, he stared down at the large box. He couldn’t hold it much longer. As it was, he had to keep poking the thing up with his knee. The officer who’d admitted Rick onto the floor sauntered over. He exchanged a hug with Hefner and the two whispered together for a moment. Rick waited, his arms protesting the prolonged strain.

Oh, this is Officer James, and you can bet he’s a big help when these kids are trying to step up. Hefner gestured toward Rick. James, this is Rick Rasner; Miss Miller hired him this week. He’s our new…you’re a psychologist, right?

Therapist. Psychotherapist, to be more specific.

Sorry…psychotherapist, so many different titles come through here. She looked back at Officer James. He’s from New York just like us, isn’t that right, Mr. Rasner?

Before Rick could answer, Officer James interrupted, Long commute. About an hour and a half’s drive.

I live in the area now, Rick explained. I moved here when I got hired.

Without giving a response, Officer James nodded and walked past Rick, heading down the hallway to greet a man wearing a white jacket who needed a door opened.

Hefner motioned with her hand for Rick to once again follow her. These doors ahead are our classrooms. We have four classes. The room to your right is for our oldest patients. They’re our high school level kids. Next to it, we have the classroom for the eighth and ninth graders. That’s the biggest age group we got.

Rick glanced at each door, trying to remember which classes were in which rooms.

Hefner spoke quickly, making it hard for him to follow. The classroom across from those two, that’s where the sixth and seventh graders get their schooling. We have only a few patients younger than that, but the ones we have are in the classroom next to that one.

These are full working classrooms?

Of course. They may be patients in our place, but they’re still children and they still need their education, right? Each student has a portfolio of his or her work. If and when a student gets released, the portfolio goes to the new school. If they don’t leave, they can still earn a real high school diploma within these walls, if they behave and can handle the work.

It must be tough getting teachers to work here.

Tell me about it! Hefner threw a shoulder shrug that reflected her attitude. We don’t exactly get teacher-of-the-year candidates, but our staff is fully accredited by the State of Pennsylvania Teachers’ Board. Sometimes they even stay, at least the ones who can deal with these kids.

Hefner stopped near the door at the end of the hallway. Rick stopped as well. What time do the students begin school?

Eight on the dot. The alarms go off an hour before and then they are escorted from their rooms on the top floor down to breakfast at 7:30. Then we bring them to their classrooms five minutes before the day starts. Each group gets half an hour for lunch in the cafeteria on the first floor, provided they’re not on lockdown, in which case they eat in their classrooms. Dinner’s at five

I noticed a farm on the property, Rick said. Is that part of the facility?

Yes. Classes end at five but those who earn the privilege get to leave early and work on the farm until dinner.

Working on the farm is a privilege? Rick laughed.

When you’re stuck in this 100 year old building day and night, Hefner pointed out, any reason to be outside is a privilege.

She took the key hanging from a string around her neck and held it in her right hand. It was a large key just like the one Officer James had. She used it to open a door, which led into another office. This office had two desks, one on opposite sides of the room. A large plastic divider spread across the width of the room.

This is the therapy suite where you will be working with Miss Murphy. She’s a social worker and does what you do, the related service. Right now, we have about 35 patients. I guess the two of you would split the caseload.

The desk on the far left was bare while the one on the

Reviews for The Rasner Effect

[highvoltagegrrl · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I enjoyed this thriller about the tangled lives of the psychotic killer, Rick Rasner and the ex-mercenary, Jake Scarberry. At first it was a little difficult to understand the way their lives were intertwined, but as the story continued the connection was made. The simultaneous development of the two oppositional main characters, Rick Rasner and Jake Scarberry keeps the storyline moving quickly. The development of the young girl locked in the Brookhill Children’s Psychiatric Residence gives depth to the storyline that made one feel somewhat sympathetic for her predicament.There is actually no hero in this book as every character has a personality disorder and personal agenda. The author’s detailed study into the delusional world of the criminally insane, as seen in the characters of Rick Rasner and his group of killers, the Duke Organization, fills the reader with a dread that there may actually be people with the same traits in the real world. This was a quick read that compelled me to read compulsively until finished. Guest Reviewer: Pat

[vickiln · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Rick Rasner and his family are crossing a NYC bridge when a bomb goes off. When he wakes up, he has a micro chip in his head and no memory of his life up to that point. Dr. Obenchain helps him recover, get a degree and a job as a child psychiatrist.Jake Scarberry was also on that bridge. Jake is a former member of the mercenary group named The Duke Organization who is now living as a janitor in Florida and is in the witness protection program.Jake has trained his daughter Jennifer to follow in his footsteps and she has been looking for Rick since the explosion. What happens when one of the special ops find Rick? It's hard to give this review because so much of what I want to say would be spoilers. I can say that it is a great read. I can say it is action packed, full of surprises and hard to put down. I can this is an amazing book for a first time author and I hope it's not his last.

[brknhrt_1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

The Rasner Effect is one of the most unusual thrillers I’ve read. It is also difficult to review without giving away any of the surprising plot twists. The mysterious past of Rick Rasner and his current work at the psychiatric home creates an interesting story, and just when you are very comfortable with the plotlines, everything changes. I mean, really, everything changes. At first, I was not happy with the changes in the book. I was actually disappointed in the twists, but by the end of the book I was pleased to have read such an unusual thriller and I swear, I think the author winked at the reader by the end. The characters are well-developed and vary in personality and nature. Be sure to read the About Author Mark Rosendorf at the end of the book. It made me laugh and put the book in perfect perspective. The Rasner Effect is a great story that captured my attention and didn’t let go. I am looking forward to reading more from Mark Rosendorf .

[bridget3420 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Rick Rasner wakes up and the only thing he remembers is his name. He is told that he is lucky to be alive, that the brutal explosion on the bridge that took several lives, almost took his as well. Still, Rick is unsure. He is not very trusting of the people around him or his surroundings. He's on constant alert trying to figure out who he was before the blowout stole his memory. Now a malicious group has set their sight on Rick. He soon finds out that he's caught in the middle of a high stakes military experiment.Very intriguing. This book definitely held my interest. I love a good conspiracy theory story. I look forward to more of Mark's work.

[ctfrench · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Two men, one connected to a terrorist group called the Duke Organization and the other hired to obliterate it, survive a bridge explosion while battling one another. Seven years later, Rick Rasner, an unwitting participant in a secret military experiment, has no memory of his life prior to the explosion. Jake Scarberry, living a mundane, unsatisfactory existence under the witness protection program, misses the excitement of his past life. Rick takes a job as a counselor at a children’s psychiatric residence where he connects with one of the patients, 15-year-old Clara Blue, whose volatile temperament keeps her in trouble with the sadistic director. Scarberry resides in a college town, working low-paying jobs and trying to stay out of trouble. Both men, feeling out of place and adrift, are unaware the Duke Organization is about to resurface, which will bring them full circle to their past adversarial positions, each intent on the destruction of the other. Rosendorf delivers plenty of nail-biting suspense along with chillingly evil characters and a thrilling plot as two opposing forces clash and re-clash in a battle to the death. Is this good versus evil or evil versus evil? The reader will have to make that decision while enjoying a galvanizing psychological suspense.