OUT OF BOUNDS

By Marc Zegar

What do you get when you combine a world-renowned research neurologist, a young, beautiful research assistant, and three skilled golfers—one of whom is the world's best and the other two top ranking amateurs? In Marc Zegar's Out of Bounds you get a delightful thriller, combining cutting-edge brain science, golf at the highest level, and the choices people make in the name of love—love of science, love of others, and even love of self.

Ellen Ann Simpson is a grad student and wet-behind-the-ears research assistant from a small rural community; when the renowned neurologist Dr. Charles Kline hires her as his lab assistant, little does she know she's about to contribute to one of the world's great scientific breakthroughs—or how everything will change in her relationship with her boyfriend Eddie Blake, an extremely successful day trader and noted amateur golfer. She'll have to decide what love looks like for her—and how does she want to spend the rest of her life?

When Eddie beats out his best friend and successful sports agent Mark Levin (also a former U.S. Amateur National Champion and the star of a previous Zegar novel, One Last Shot) to win a spot alongside the world's best—the incomparable Bear Talbot—at the Fushima/ Montero Bay Pro-Am, he's on top of the world. He has a great life. His discipline as a trader has made him extremely successful, he has a fantastic, breathtakingly beautiful girlfriend—and, he hopes, future wife—in Ellen, and he's about to play golf with Bear Talbot, a fourteen-time major championship winner. Little does he know, his world is about to drastically change, a split-second tragedy drastically changing the course of his life to come.

Dr. Kline—or Charlie, as Ellen knows him—is a shy and awkward but no less brilliant research neurologist. Now he's on the brink of a breakthrough that could change neurology and brain science forever; he's about to transplant a portion of the brain—the nucleus incertus—that controls motor skills. If and when it works, the implications for all manners of science will be tremendous, including potential replacement brain matter, treatments for several brain injuries, diseases and more. He's so close—but will he get there? And at what cost? And when that breakthrough comes, what are the ethical and moral implications? Do those lines change when people you love are involved?

Zegar's Out of Bounds grapples with the sacrifices made for science, for love, and for passion—as well as explores the idea of what makes someone who they are—in a thrilling ride that will surely captivate you. See how friendship and love are tested by trauma and the choices each of our protagonists are willing to make in the interest of pursuing their dreams and desires and ask yourself, what choice would I make?

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Oct 8, 2020
• ISBN: 9781098333973

Book preview

©2020 All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Print ISBN: 978-1-09833-396-6

eBook ISBN: 978-1-09833-397-3

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

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 1

He shot back an uncomfortable glance, fixing his eyes away and down on some seemingly important mixture on the lab table in front of him.

Are you sure? she asked.

He could hear the passivity in her voice; it didn’t matter one way or the other. She closed the door behind her, thus ending their Friday night routine. Each week, Ellen politely invited him to join the rest of the gang from the different departments at the research center. Her invitation was perfunctory.

Charles first thought it was because he was the boss and she might have been a bit intimidated to know him personally. He had heard from others that his achievements and reputation could be intimidating. But later he discovered what he always knew, but discovering it again made it no less painful. He had heard from others that his achievements and reputation could be intimidating. She was pretty. He was not. Sometimes things were that simple.

He walked over to the full-length mirror near the scales where he often had conversations with himself. Straightening his thinning hair with his fingers, and examining his appearance, he thought, my clothes are in order, give or take a few spots on my lab coat. When’s the last time I polished my shoes? He noticed idly his 44-year-old, six-foot frame carried less weight even than usual; for him, food was more of an obligation than a pleasure. He ate when he had time, and there was never enough time. I need a haircut, he thought, but it’ll have to wait. What a pain, having to get a haircut when I don’t have all that much hair, anyway. Why can’t I be more assertive with women? I guess I’ll never…might as well give up on that idea. He shrugged his shoulders and turned away from the mirror.

Charles considered the laboratory his home. Not his home away from home—his home. After all, he spent far more time at the lab than at his seedy apartment. His apartment wasn’t always seedy, though. It just got that way from neglect and inattentiveness. He chose the place after he saw an ad in the university paper for apartment furnishings. The ad touted functionality, practicality, and a less expensive price for faculty members, at least compared to other high-quality furnishing companies. Further, and perhaps the clincher on the deal, was that their designers would come in and take care of everything.

He called University Furniture Designs and told them he wanted the dining room, bedroom, and living room furniture advertised in the paper; that he was a faculty member of Standard Medical Center; and that he was in need of their free design services to furnish his new apartment. The price certainly seemed reasonable enough, or at least affordable as advertised, with assurances that the furniture would easily fit his apartment and suit his lifestyle. He wasn’t sure about this lifestyle claim, but heard the colloquium bandied about enough to feel satisfied that it—lifestyle, whatever that may be—was probably a good thing to have. He gave his credit card number over the phone and felt quite proud of himself for handling this mundane piece of life’s business.

The designer (who also, interestingly enough, was the furniture mover) arrived with the purchased furniture on the date promised. So far, so good—though even with what Charles knew of downsizing and the press of business concerns about budgets (as he was reminded all the time by the Neuromyfyx directors, the company that ostensibly financed the research Charles was conducting through large grants to the University), he began to get suspicious about his designer furniture.

As it turned out, the furniture was placed throughout the apartment quite nicely. The dining room had a table and chairs at which to eat, and the bedroom had a bed, a chest of drawers and two—not just one—side tables on which to put a lamp or a clock. What else could anyone want or need?

Charles hung a recently updated periodic element chart on the wall and a few neurological brain scans and considered his new place. It was, he thought, indeed cozy and certainly available when he needed to go there. However, over the years, his general apathy—no dusting, vacuuming or generally maintaining the apartment other than on a must-do basis—took its toll. Dishes regularly piled in the sink and when he occasionally needed one, he would meticulously sterilize it under scalding hot water; certainly, the dish wouldn’t be lab-quality sterilized, but he couldn’t operate the dishwasher nor did he have any interest in learning. Besides which, he rarely ate at home, anyway. Quite frankly, he couldn’t remember the last time he did. Over the years, odors from the sink and other dark, dank corners permeated the apartment. Over time, Charles’ apartment became a moldy mess the sort of which he never would have allowed at the lab.

Turning away from the mirror, he gazed upon his vast laboratory fortress. The ample supplies along a bank of cabinets—some open to view, some under lock and key—sat neatly organized within the sections of the lab where they would be most needed. Rows of stainless steel countertop with sinks every 15 feet or so dotted the landscape in a geometric pattern between orderly beakers filled with colored substances. Charles could understand and appreciate the perfect order of why everything was where it was. He may have had his own personal feelings, sure, just as he knew each of the others in the lab—all 12 of them—had their own feelings, too, but he didn’t understand how or why those feelings worked or why people were drawn to one person or another. The explanations of chemistry and charisma were lost upon a mind that operated in an empirical fashion. Surely, some people were more pleasant to be around than others because of manners, scent, tone of speech and the like, but Charles was as pleasant and as mild-mannered as he could be around Ellen.

No, it couldn’t be the clothes she didn’t like. Charles bought nice clothes at University Clothiers. The proprietor of the store knew (courtesy the local paper) that Dr. Charles Kline had just received the prestigious Steinfeld award and the accompanying neurosciences research grant in the staggering amount of $20 million, even if it was partially underwritten by Neuromyfyx. Charles might have thought the proprietor picked out the most expensive charcoal gray slacks and white shirts in the store because she thought he was wealthy if had been paying attention, but no, Charles was oblivious.

He didn’t really notice that people were nicer to him, either, even if he did notice that more people seemed to remember his name after a chance encounter during the mundane routine of daily life. And, he reflected, the business of life was indeed mundane. Charles liked to reflect on the mundanity of life, and thought of it often in explaining the mysteries or vagaries of moving around in a consumable culture where people bought and cast off with seemingly equal nonchalance so many manufactured products and the enormous effort those products cost in person-hours to make. Charles could easily get depressed over the waste if he let himself, but he usually caught himself before that point.

Charles had told the scarf-clad, jewelry-laden, makeup-plastered and heavily perfumed owner of University Clothiers that he needed two outfits, for sure, and to add a third in case a component part was spoiled. She had stared at him for a moment—allowing her smile to involuntarily unfreeze briefly—before gaining control again of the sale opportunity. Charles noticed this glazing over; he had seen it before with other chance encounters when doing business in the small village. It puzzled him. Were these clothes for work? She asked. In the laboratory?

It was simple to Charles. He would need some time to replace any of the components in the event of staining or unexpected undue wear and tear. For this reason, he explained, all three outfits needed to be the same so these components could be interchangeable without notice or incident.

At first, he programmed his computer calendar to remind himself to make the switch of soiled versus cleaned clothes at the cleaners. Although they were mostly the same, he had dropped off and picked up his clothes at University Cleaners with some degree of regularity. However, he often was too involved with his work to remember the errand, which brought havoc to his routine.

He wore a white coat over his clothes so that they rarely got stained but body odor eventually required changing. He knew this would happen but wanted to change clothes before anyone noticed even if he didn’t. So he decided to have his clothes cleaned as often as they brought him a fresh smock from the school laundry. The smock had its own freshly cleaned scent. This was twice a week. He arranged for University Cleaners to pick up and deliver his clothes on the same days. On the day of the arrival of the new smock and dry cleaning, he brought in the dirty clothes, wore the third set and received the newly dry cleaned set (including socks and underwear that were also dry cleaned because they were too small a load by themselves to be laundered economically) without having to leave the lab or remember another errand. Charles was very pleased with the way he handled this particular business of life. Surely the University laundry and dry cleaner were more reliable than he at doing errands. This worked fine unless there was a holiday, but even holidays were manageable because employees didn’t come to the lab and Charles didn’t concern himself about his wardrobe on those days. In some ways, those were the days when Charles could get his best work done.

One Thanksgiving, now a year ago, Ellen had agreed to work with Charles and assist him with a complex experiment involving mice.

He had made sure his attire was flawless. He had arranged for a special delivery of his clothes late afternoon the day before. He knew he couldn’t put on cologne and alert her that something was different but he had washed thoroughly with extra amounts of the laboratory soap he always brought home for his personal hygiene.

Apparently, there were no flights to Minneapolis the day before Thanksgiving because of a severe snowstorm and other arrangements could not be made so that Ellen could join her extended family for the holiday meal; her parents had passed a few years earlier, but she had told Charles she was still looking forward to seeing friends and extended family. She could have arrived on Friday night before the weekend, but everyone had decided it was too long and costly a trip for less than 48 hours at home—hardly enough time to see much of anyone. Consequently, the trip was postponed until Christmas when she would get a couple of weeks off.

Meanwhile, Charles, both feeling bad for her and aware that the holidays were likely hard for her, offered her additional holiday pay for her assistance on Thanksgiving Day when he would be conducting an experiment he deemed critical at the time. She was more than pleased to have her mind off of the festivities and to earn extra money in the process.

Chapter 2

Are you sure Charles?

Ellen called him Charles now, although she was the last one in the laboratory to drop the Dr. Kline moniker and even then, only after their Thanksgiving working in the laboratory together. She had never hesitated for a moment to work that day alone with Dr. Kline—or Charles, as he insisted she call him. Dr. Kline was extremely polite to everyone in the lab, but as she’d learned, he was also extremely shy. Ellen knew the other women admired him not just for his intellect and reputation for genius, which was considerable, but also for his manners and clumsy charm.

Ellen also knew that with the exception of herself and another fellow named Adam, these were a collection of truly brilliant people working in the Standard University neurosciences research laboratory. Not that she and Adam weren’t smart, but they didn’t hold graduate degrees in advanced science or any other discipline and weren’t handpicked from the most prestigious medical/research schools around the country to work with the brilliant Dr. Kline. They were capable students in their own right, though, and they were progressing through their last year of grad school. Still, though, Ellen knew her scholastic record was not particularly distinguished. She had worked hard but was barely able to keep up. Sometimes working hard, though, was just not enough, as she had only barely maintained a B- average throughout her college career. She would finish her graduate program, though, and was proud of that as the first in her family—and maybe even the first in the rural town from where she hailed—to graduate from any institution of higher learning beyond the local community two-year college, which was itself no small feat.

Her position at the laboratory was a matter of timing. Just as the 3x5 index card was posted on the bulletin board advertising for a lab assistant, another 3x5 index card informed her of the positions cut at the art school where she had previously been modestly posing for $15/hour. She rushed to the lab immediately, approaching the only person in the lab at the time. Though Dr. Kline was a bit flustered at first (especially given that he never actually hired lab assistants, much less met many women with Ellen’s engaging smile, endearing personality, or fine looks), he then agreed in an even tone. He never asked her any questions or gave her any indication of what the job would be like except to say, Do you mind being around mice?

Mice didn’t bother Ellen. She grew fond of the creatures when cleaning out the barn back home in Turner Hill; she pretended to be Cinderella and had lots of mouse friends. Plus, at $30 hourly and the potential for graduate credit beside, this was a spectacular opportunity to make some real money. Her family could barely support themselves and the other children of late. She certainly could not expect them to send money beyond what they were able to offer to help with her housing and a few books here and there. Without the college grant from the local grange, she knew she would not have been able to come across the country to attend Standard University at all.

Dr. Kline seemed like a nice enough man when he awkwardly agreed to give her the position, but truthfully, she understood her feminine powers and was used to getting what she wanted from men. She rarely went out of her way to exploit the charms of her amply filled 5’8" frame and sparkling green eyes, but she didn’t mind letting it happen under honest circumstances. After all, she needed a job and Dr. Kline needed a lab assistant—it was as simple as that.

Of course, she realized she could have gotten by entirely with her extraordinary looks, but her father had taught her better than that. Instead, she worked extremely hard, noting that in her experience, she had to put in a great deal more time and effort to accomplish what most people accomplished more easily. Between her challenging schoolwork and her job at the lab, she had less time with her boyfriend, Eddie. Remembering her childhood in Turner Hill, however, helped her keep her priorities in order, no matter how much she might have missed seeing much of Eddie. Besides, she didn’t play golf—a game pursued in leisure time by the affluent, which she certainly was not—and that was seemingly all he ever did. Nor did she expect affluence in her future anytime soon.

Eddie, on the other hand, was apparently very successful in doing something with the stock market. She knew he bought and sold stocks and made good money doing it, though she didn’t know much else about what he did. Because he was up with the chickens, he finished work early and invariably ended up spending his afternoons at the golf course. He belonged to a very exclusive private club; Ellen knew it only courtesy occasional dinner dances she and Eddie attended there.

She knew Eddie was crazy about her, but she was still afraid to show how much she really cared about him. His life simply did not seem real to her, and the truth of the matter was that she often already felt like a golf widow even if they weren’t married yet. She heard stories about husbands that played golf in all of their spare time and spent very little time with their families and wondered if that would be Eddie. She had these suspicions, but still, he had affected her differently than any man she had ever met.

He didn’t make sense to her the way other men did. One moment he was waxing about mathematical formulas on a spreadsheet and the next he was painting golf shots across the landscape. She could feel his exhilaration for formulas and a game she didn’t understand, but what she liked most was his tenderness and willingness to speak on any subject—even his deepest and darkest secrets. Eddie was a man you could talk to for hours; he made it easy for Ellen Ann Simpson to truly love.

Dr. Kline was an entirely different story.

Ellen had always been attracted to success and accomplishment, ever since the first man she ever loved, her father. She sorely missed her parents, but they had been gone ever since they both passed away. Her father had died first and her mother thereafter, probably from a broken heart, had passed within months. Her father had always been able to do anything he had set his mind to, and he had instilled this perseverance and determination in his only daughter Ellen. One year, when times were very difficult on the farm, her father had not been able to afford to hire mechanics to fix the many different machines in constant need of repair. Instead, he stayed up nights reading manuals and getting advice from friends. He worked very hard but managed to keep the machines in working order without the expense or need to spend money on outside help.

Another time, Ellen’s father had impressed her was when he set about to breed the best dairy cows in Turner Hill. He was incensed at a price given him by a breeder to cover his cows one year. Once again, he read everything he could get his hands on and talked to the old farmers about the breeding of dairy cattle. Three years later, Ellen’s brother won the 4-H Club’s livestock contest for his prized calf. Her father developed an excellent reputation as a livestock breeder for dairy cows. From his steadfast example, Ellen had learned that hard work and perseverance would carry the day. Now, though, she missed her father more than anything.

Dr. Kline worked extremely hard. As best as she could determine, he was trying to help brain injury patients who had suffered severe trauma to the head. He was always at the lab, too; she could not remember a time when she arrived at the lab and Dr. Kline was not already there, nor could she remember ever leaving after him. In many ways, his intense focus and single-mindedness reminded Ellen of her father. In fact, Dr. Kline—much like her father—would regularly explain every nuance of what he was working on and trying to accomplish at any given moment if asked. Ellen wasn’t sure, though, if Charles was really that nice to everyone or if it was because she was the one asking, nor was she able to read into any of his expressions the way she could read most men. She found this disarming and unintentionally, if not unconsciously, her curiosity about Charles brought her closer to her employer.

She wasn’t sure what to make of a man she couldn’t read. Often, in other circumstances, Ellen had to be very careful not to give the wrong impression to the young men that swarmed around her lest she unintentionally sent them the wrong signal. Her mother had always hastened to warn Ellen in her younger years before church socials and other events that boys—even boys from the best families—could frequently mistake her intentions unless she was perfectly clear with her verbal communications and body language.

Nothing in her previous experience could have prepared Ellen for Dr. Charles Kline; she truly had never met anyone like him. Though he