Hope Betrayed: A Stripping of Trust

By Charles R. Kuhn

James Armstrong, a man diagnosed with a debilitating disease, and his traveling companion, an attractive research physician from Italy, travel the globe in search of a treatment for the illness while pursued by agents of a powerful triad made up of agents of the pharmaceutical industry, an evangelical base, and political powers. The dangerous cat and mouse game continues until the story concludes where it began.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Aug 31, 2021
• ISBN: 9781647500801

Charles R. Kuhn

Mr. Kuhn resides in Citrus Heights California outside of Sacramento with his wife, an elementary school teacher and their many rescued animals, including dogs, cats, guinea pigs, rabbits, chickens, a turtle, parrots and pigeons. Mr. Kuhn has two children, a 27 year old daughter who teaches fourth graders and a 25 year old son completing his college degree in environmental engineering. Mr. Kuhn has had the privilege of traveling through Southeast Asia for work and many spots in Europe with his family.His writing style is largely based on personal experiences and family stories he brings to life in riveting prose and expertise. Mr. Kuhn’s writing skills have developed after many years as a technical writer and project manager as an environmental consultant. Mr. Kuhn has a Bachelors degree from Cal Poly, San Luis Obispo and a Masters Degree from the University of Nevada at Reno.Later in life, Mr. Kuhn found his voice as a recreational artist and entertainer after being diagnosed with a debilitating disease in mid-life. Though today, he is entrenched within a wheel chair, Mr. Kuhn hand inputs his novels, short stories and poems.As a writer, Mr. Kuhn seeks to convey answers to mysteries we have all innocently encountered in everyday life. It is his hope to make us all question and seek the truth behind life’s surprises. If he can be successful in making just one of his readers ask “Why?”, he deems himself a triumph in making us think a little above and beyond the ordinary.

Book preview

About the Author

Mr. Kuhn resides in Reno, Nevada. Mr. Kuhn has two adult children and a grand-daughter. Mr. Kuhn has had the privilege of traveling to Southeast Asia (Thailand, Malaysia and parts of China) for work and spots in Europe for pleasure. His writing style is largely based on personal experiences and bringing his story to life by not telling a story, but by painting a story.

Mr. Kuhn’s writing ability developed after many years of writing in the environmental field.

Mr. Kuhn has a bachelor’s degree from Cal Poly, San Luis Obispo, CA. and a master’s degree from the University of Nevada at Reno.

Later in life, Mr. Kuhn found his voice as a recreational writer after being diagnosed with a debilitating illness. Today, he manually types his manuscripts with one finger while sitting in his wheelchair. He writes fiction in the adventure, mystery and science fiction genre. He also writes short stories and non-fiction.

Mr. Kuhn seeks to convey answers to mysteries we encounter in everyday life. It is his hope to make us all question and seek the truth behind life’s surprises. If he is successful in making just one person ask why, he deems himself a triumph in making us question a little above and beyond what is normally accepted.

Dedication

Dedicated to my parents,

who always taught me to think outside the box.

Copyright Information ©

Charles R. Kuhn (2021)

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher.

Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Ordering Information

Quantity sales: special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, and others. For details, contact the publisher at the address below.

Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication data

Kuhn, Charles R.

Hope Betrayed.

ISBN 9781647500788 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781647500795 (Hardback)

ISBN 9781647500801 (ePub e-book)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2021914983

www.austinmacauley.com/us

First Published (2021)

Austin Macauley Publishers LLC

40 Wall Street, 33rd Floor, Suite 3302

New York, NY 10005

USA

[e-mail]

[phone]

Acknowledgment

I would like to acknowledge the publisher, Austin Macauley and my children, Rachel and Chris, for their review, reading, and patience.

Chapter 1

The first attempt on my life came one fall morning. It came from nowhere. Though terrified by the event, I was not surprised, nor without forethought that it might happen.

Months before, I had been diagnosed with a disease. It slowly robbed me of certain skills’ abilities. The disease would not take me, but it did lay out a dim future. My ability to walk on two strong legs was stolen. Though confined to a wheelchair, my ability to think, to reason, to understand, and to predict were not lost. I knew why the death threats had been sent and, now, an assassination attempt came for me. The only question answered that morning was when.

As I wheeled my chair no more than two blocks from my apartment, I suddenly heard the noise of impending doom and snapped my head to the right to absorb the sound of tortured tires squealing across asphalt. The smell of burnt rubber and the rising smoke pushed me into a flight instinct even as I realized escape in my wheelchair was useless.

I witnessed the reality of the moment as death rushed toward me. In an automatic reflex, I tightened my weakened body and bent at the waist into a ball of muscle and bone at the anticipated compression. In a split second, I tried to prepare for the shock that would end my life. This was the moment they came for me. This was the moment I knew would come.

Terror enveloped me at the impact that would throw me from my wheelchair against some immobile object. My mind screamed out, but the expected blow to my handicapped body did not come. What happened? Where was it?

The instrument of my death struck the curb and sailed airborne. The car rotated to the driver’s side with violent abruptness from the moment of impact against the high curb, the front wheels still turned from the violent change in direction the car had taken in the street. The curb, the violent turn, the shift in the center of gravity of the careening vehicle were just enough to send it into an unbalanced rotation away from me in a contorted twist of speeding metal.

A tremendous rush of heat scorched my back as it missed me by inches. The car nearly tore a woman to pieces just starting to step by me, who began to scream, My God! over and over again. I heard the noise of the hurtling vehicle and the woman screaming and knew I would never forget the terror of that moment. Someone’s world had been rocked, but whom?

Flight was paramount in my mind. It would be useless to fight against a hidden adversary, so the flight instinct kicked into high gear. I crouched in the chair and reached for the wheels, gripping them with adrenaline-charged strength and pushed to rotate the wheels so hard that I began to flip backward in the air. I grasped the chair in a white-knuckled grip and flung my weight forward to reverse gravity and avoid being thrown to the sidewalk. The front wheels of the chair lifted and now settled to earth, not with a slam onto the pavement as expected, but as a gentle caress back to reality.

The pace of time slowed as I anticipated would occur when the psyche experienced sudden, unexpected moments of horror. Books had told me events would slow as if the gates to eternity opened and sucked the very air of existence from the world and then, with a great rush, the gates would slam back into their rightful position as the true pace of life roared back.

I immediately pushed hard to escape the chaos. The thunderous explosion of the vehicle against the building alongside the sidewalk shook the ground. My attention jerked to the wall. The vehicle had smashed into the brick structure I had been rolling parallel to. The windshield blew out and became a mass of flying glass shards. The front end of the car transformed into a compressed chunk of crumbled metal.

The wall seemed to shudder. Red-brick dust filled the air as if a fine mist of blood circulated around me. But, this was the injured blood of the building now damaged but not fatally maimed by its injury. A thin layer of broken brick particles and mortar crumbled into ash by the crushing impact floated in the air as an eerie darkness crept into the daylight, signaling mourning could begin.

Screams raised in terrified commotion were swallowed up by the gasps of the dying vehicle. Hot steam blasted from the fractured radiator. The damaged fan blade shrieked against metal as it ground to a final stop. The screams of the woman standing near me echoed against my ears. Death and injury cried for ritual assistance. Neither succumbed and neither was successful in their gasps.

Though stunned, I continued my escape. Perhaps fear, or adrenaline, or an instinct to survive drove me, yet I knew I must head in the opposite direction. Flight remained my mantra. Escape was paramount. My chair accelerated as I pushed harder in a desperate getaway from the horrific scene.

My adrenaline pumped and heart pounded. I couldn’t believe the attempt had actually happened. Whoever did this would now live with the consequences of their actions. I would survive. Right then and there, I swore to complete my investigation, and I renewed my commitment.

As I reached the next corner, I hesitated a moment and looked back at the carnage. Debris splayed onto the street. People scrambled around the scene. The airbag in the crippled car had deflated and rested against the slumped driver. The passenger door had been crumpled and ripped from its hinges. I could see the driver’s head slumped atop the steering wheel; eyes fixed in a dead, glassy stare. Blood stained his face. Although I could see the mustache and brown hair, I didn’t recognize his features, but I did see metal rods that had come up through the floor of the car, impaling him in place. The proposed instrument of my death had become another’s.

Sirens wailed. Though the sound of the impact had ended, horror still swirled near the tragedy. The fall chill that surrounded me seemed colder than moments before. People began to emerge from nearby buildings, drawn by the horrific sounds.

Many exited their office doors with shouts of shock at the horror that unfolded on their street. A typical American city thoroughfare had turned into the bleachers of the neighborhood tragedy.

I had no way to prove it at that moment, yet I intuitively knew the accident was an attempt to extinguish my life and silence my voice forever, most likely by one of the many hatemongers casting their aspersions at me through their vitriol-laced nasty-grams. The attempt had failed. My efforts to help myself, no matter the political correctness of my pursuits, would not be stopped.

The importance of my survival intensified. I grappled with the thought that some people would resort to any action to silence the truth that would change their existence. Whether the hatemongers, or industrial power brokers, or both, I had stumbled on during my newfound intensive research, their secrets threatened to bare to the world a tale of deception so deep and dark that those who hated me or wanted to protect their secrets would resort to murder. I came to the hard realization the ramifications of my research were no longer just about me. This was much bigger. I now had to deal with the reality that my own life might be sacrificed in pursuit of a greater truth.

Chapter 2

My life changed the moment I heard that heartless expression of death tossed at me. It originally came from a physician. It came callously with little sympathy. Turmoil enveloped me. I saw no way to escape the uninvited guest at my table. There were snippets throughout the day where I found respite from the horror, but the stench of death couldn’t be scrubbed from my skin.

Peace of mind of any kind was found only in the hope that I might one day escape this nightmare. Only through my search for answers to the unexplainable dimension I found myself trapped within could I immerse myself in a cleansing tub of hopeful suds to attempt to wash the stench of death and illness from my body and watch gleefully as it swirled down the drain at the end of each day. I became addicted to scrubbing the odor away.

When I now look back on that life-altering moment, I recognize the doctor’s prognosis had not been uttered in thoughtless hate, just represented an incredible insensitivity, near cruelty I now tried to wipe from my mind.

Previous to my diagnosis, I experienced physical changes that first led me to seek medical help culminating in the doomsday forecast.

The initial changes started quietly and escalated to rob me of one of my senses. I lost eyesight in my left eye. Daylight turned to darkness. My nerves were on edge. I neared panic, plagued by dire thoughts and questions I couldn’t answer.

Fear of blindness filled each moment. Time taken to read the paper became a moment of the past. Simple tasks, long taken for granted, took on new difficulty. Normality vanished from my life.

When I could no longer deny the inevitable, I scheduled a doctor’s appointment and diagnosis began. Then, two new words entered my world. Multiple sclerosis, or more simply represented by the acronym M.S.

I simply asked the doctor to define M.S. for me. I was a newbie, a neophyte. This was as all new to me. Will you define M.S. for me? I asked the ophthalmologist I visited that day and life changed for me. His reply tagged him irreversibly in my mind with the label, Dr. Frankenstein, and will never be forgotten or forgiven.

He answered precisely, with a cold and cruel directness.

M.S. is a disease that affects the central nervous system and results in death.

Wait a second! I’m 37 years old! This could not be true! My health had always been good. I was always active, very much alive, employed, played to win, drank a beer on weekends, every once in a while the occasional cocktail. How could my life take such a dramatic turn?

The weight of the unknown wore on me. I dug into research to learn of the illness I had been saddled with. I found there was no known cure or cause. It was a mystery, one of unacceptable ramifications.

I found I could lose the use of my limbs, cognitive function, and a laundry list of other potential heart breaks. Such was the legacy of M.S.

But I refused to be so callously tossed into that barrel defined so simply by the acronym M.S. I vowed to fight back against this invisible monster. M.S. might try to take a seat at my table, but it wasn’t welcome. No invitation had been extended, and no courtesy was to be offered. I would fight back. I would research. I would study. I would find a way to toss this unwelcome guest from my presence. M.S. didn’t define me. I refused to succumb to its curse.

I studied. I learned. And, most of all, I moved toward an understanding of shedding the scarlet acronym, M.S.

Slowly, my mobility was taken. It did not stop me. A wheelchair became a necessary tool to maintain normal tasks. They were accomplished at a slower speed, but they were still accomplished.

During the early stages of diagnosis and treatment, in my restless moments of quiet, I considered the uninvited guest that had showed up without announcement. It displayed no manners, possessed stinky breath, foul body odor, and ate with smacks, drools, and burps with no regard for others. My goal was to find a way to eradicate it, to kill it, to kick it from my life for good.

But I found no immediate cure to accomplish this goal. My eyesight returned, though I knew the monster lurked, waiting to throw my life into chaos at its first opportunity. Before it could strike again, I continued my research to find a way to deal with the beast before it devoured my heart and soul. I knew a cure was under development. It had to be. I refused to accept any other possibility.

I had always reacted to the world in a very workman-like manner. When faced with a dilemma, the answer must be found. It had worked for me before. Questions raised more questions. Logic demanded an answer. There was no reason to change my formula now.

The need to understand pushed me onward. I was determined to prove Dr. Frankenstein wrong. Death did not wait at my door.

In my new existence, life changed. I spent hours with my nose buried in medical texts, in the review of M.S. research from around the world, and, soon, I knew more than I ever wanted to know about autoimmune disease. My passion to learn of the illness that infected me turned me into an encyclopedia of the illness.

The long-term prognosis was poor. There were no treatment options. The term ‘management’ drugs entered my world, and I learned the beast could be controlled but not thrown out the door. Still, my pursuit did not waiver. To accept the unacceptable was simply unacceptable. I clung to hope for improvement which existed in a dismal state of malcontent.

Finally, I found a beacon of light that could help illuminate the darkness I traveled through. The use of stem cells for medical regeneration of diseased or damaged tissues ignited a spark of hope, a means to tame the untamable. My crusade took on an even greater part of my life.

I wrote letters, made telephone calls, and sent emails to those in positions of power to gain whatever foothold of influence I could find. The use of stem cells to cure disease took on a new life for me. My contact list grew.

Time to lobby the State legislature for increased research funds into the cause and cure of M.S. was etched into my schedule.

I soon developed a reputation not only as a passionate spokesperson on living with M.S. but for the advancement of stem-cell utilization. I was relentless in my pursuit, and as my tenacity began to be recognized, my opponents began to emerge.

My name appeared in newspaper articles; I was invited as a guest speaker on radio-talk shows; I began a blog and posted about my success and failures, and even a national news program did a story on me. My personal information no longer stayed private; my identity no longer secret.

Then, the hate letters began. I read them all. Why? I asked myself that many times each evening. I needed to learn it all, including their opinions, perhaps for comic relief, maybe to know each side of the argument.

The nasty-grams mostly repeated the same vile anger. After a quick scan of a half dozen one night, the seventh grabbed my attention. ‘You will die soon. You won’t know how, or when, yet you will know why. You cannot expect your blasphemous actions to go unpunished.’

The attempt on my life by the car accident came shortly thereafter.

The anger in the hate letters manifested a new fear in me. I had been exposed to unkind words before in my life, even suffered the cruel backlash of their tortuous meaning, but nothing like this had ever been thrown at me.

These words took on a revulsion that scared me, made me shake at night and double check to make sure the door locks had been secured, and forced me to watch over my shoulder. Hate-filled rhetoric from people like these indoctrinated me into their callous beliefs, changed my thoughts and actions, my very world.

By and large, the letters mostly carried the same message. That was a message of fierce hatred that burdened me daily. A hatred that stemmed from their beliefs I was advocating against the rights of the unborn.

Compassion had always been a part of my life. I had a strong love for my daughter and, at one time, my ex-wife. I loved my childhood dog, family members, success at my job, and winning, whether at the stock market or the weekend softball game. To win exhilarated me, and, now, victory at the biggest challenge of my life became essential.

The debate over stem-cell utilization in the use of medical procedures was a hotly contested subject that filled each vile letter I received. Did no one have any compassion? Why couldn’t they understand? It seemed so simple. My goal was not to be a killer of life unborn, but a survivor bent on improvement. To better my existence and return to normality, to be able to perform simple tasks was my only goal. Was this so hard to understand? Compassion and empathy of any kind took on a new meaning for me.

I wondered where the venomous hatred in the letters I received came from. How could these people I had never met have such contemptuous regard for me? I began to gain a better understanding when I found this was more than the argument of the use of life for the betterment of life. This involved the use of money and power used to stoke the incredible hatred toward me. This elaborate web had been spun to maintain strength, money, and solitude. My simple effort to help myself threatened to bring it crashing down.

Chapter 3

My supervisor, William Blane, called me into his office. I made my way with mixed anticipation. It surprised me to find a corporate manager was also present.

Mr. Blane blurted out, You’re fired. He complained my research deviated from tech companies I had been assigned to track and leaned toward the medical industry. The company already employed specialists in that area. The corporate manager stayed silent and listened. Mr. Blane offered me continued company medical insurance, termination pay, and payment of accrued vacation with obvious reluctance.

The intricacies of the moment were lost on me. I had toyed with the thought of unemployment, but, now, the reality set in.

As I rose and left, shaken, It had ended, circulated through my head. After eight years, my employment with Northern Brokerage had come to an end.

Unbeknownst to me, after I departed the office, the corporate manager returned to his upstairs suite and picked up his phone to make a call. He couldn’t wait to make his report.

Good afternoon, Ashton Pharmaceuticals. How may I direct your call?

To Steven Drake, please. This is Robert Samuels.

After the transfer, Robert started, Steven, Robert from Northern here.

Did you complete the task? asked Steven.

Mr. Armstrong no longer can be considered an employee here.

Good. Have you scanned his hard drive yet?

It will happen tomorrow. I’ll let you know if you show up anywhere.

We can’t afford that, Robert. Let me know as soon as possible, and, Robert, Steven said in a threatening tone, Keep this private.

Steven Drake peered over his eyeglasses at the award certificate on the wall received last year and hung up the handset. ‘For Ten Years of Admirable Service as Vice President of Communications,’ the certificate read. Steven hoped the minor blip on the radar screen would now disappear.

Chapter 4

Previous to my dismissal, the research into my diagnosis and search for a potential cure or treatment continued to be my obsession. Help might arrive someday, though much too slow in my opinion. I would not, could not sit idly by and wait. I wasn’t built that way.

Following my diagnosis, I listened to the same old diatribe from doctors, friends, or support groups. It became obvious my destiny lied up to me to find a way to keep the snarls, snaps, and sharp teeth of the beast at bay. My future lay in my hands.

It was easy for me to become disenchanted in my search for hope to beat the beast back. During this emotionally trying time, to find that one glimmer became my quest. Others looked for it. They researched, studied, and wrote. Except, did the professionals understand the urgency? After all, this diagnosis belonged to me, not to them. How many of those who looked for an answer also have the illness?

For me, the personal side resonated. For others, their job performance mattered. I researched. My job suffered, which would come back to haunt me, however, my new task kept me enthralled and drove me on.

I was given latitude at work for quite a while, due to my rising star achieved in the rise of the technology sector that afforded me certain privileges, allowing my indiscretions to be over looked, at least initially. My success during the dotcom era had not gone unnoticed. The company made money, as did its clients, and enough by me was set aside for a rainy day that would help fund my future endeavors.

The work tasks assigned me, I still performed with diligence but knew my divergence into my personal quest drew attention and could result in the outcome I so dreaded.

The biotechnology and medical industry became my new playground. As anticipated, my direction gained notice from my coworkers and my supervisor, culminating in my termination.

Prior to my dismissal, a cohort, Amber, offered her assistance in what she saw as my newfound passion. She was close to my age, attractive, and smart. She offered to help in my research endeavor, an offer I could not refuse. Her participation seemed to be from compassion for her work, perhaps flirtation, or so I thought. However, a deeper secret lied tucked away, one based on her philosophical belief. It stayed hidden as a dangerous secret fueled by her passion and her indoctrination into the teaching of the moral right received throughout her life.

My own life became consumed by research into my disease. Amber’s cute remarks, tight sweaters, short skirts, baby blues, and flirtatious comments failed to distract me.

I lived alone, had divorced some years back, and found time to throw myself into research without other personal commitments holding me back.

My divorce moved forward in as amicable a manner as possible. We married after college, in a rush to tackle the world. The passion of our relationship became buried in our desire to advance our careers, without acknowledgement of the attention needed to keep the domestic fires alive.

The marriage produced a baby girl we loved, although she threw a curve into the job success both of us desired. The failure to meet our professional goals led to disappointment which led to the collapse of our marriage.

We made the decision to move on alone and share joint custody of our beautiful baby girl, Brenda. Our co-parenting arrangement allowed Brenda to grow into my pride and joy. She recently turned 16, a vivacious, intelligent, athletic, young lady who could do no wrong in my eyes. My presence at her soccer games, school plays, and numerous other events soon became a ritual.

When not with my daughter, my weekends were devoted to my computer, or trips to libraries, in pursuit of additional applicable research data. My letter and telephone campaign continued unabated.

My commitment soon made me an unofficial spokesperson for living with M.S. and the search for a beneficial treatment program.

The grid of interested onlookers in the biotechnology and medical treatment industry soon lit up. My activities took on new importance to those in the shadows. No one could generate such energy on such a controversial topic and not draw attention. My activities attracted interest. Quiet surveillance was soon initiated to track my endeavors.

My education curve into M.S. grew. My multitask chores of balancing work and a new research direction continued for over two years. I recognized it would only be a matter of time before my employers called me on it. And then, one day, they