Beckon (11 page)

Chapter 20

Elina awoke in the dark, back in what she assumed was her prison cell. Her jaw and muscles ached from the beating she'd taken and from lying on the cold rock floor. She had no idea how long she had been unconscious.

She explored her cell again and found no way of escape. There was a large clay pot in the corner that reeked of human waste but otherwise nothing else inside the cell. No other bit of furnishing. Like in some squalid medieval dungeon, she half expected there to be a rotting corpse chained to the wall.

Elina found she was losing all track of time. She spent her waking hours talking either to Javier and Miguel or to God. And when she slept, it was in fitful spurts on the cold, damp ground. She struggled to keep her thoughts focused on finding a way out. She had to keep her terror at bay. Terror would lead to despair, which would cause her to give up hope.

At one point she was huddled on the floor praying for her life when she heard a voice outside her door.

“What're you doing?”

Elina looked up, startled. “Praying.”

She peered through the window in her door and could see the vague features of the man with the smelling salts.

“Praying? Why?”

“Because it's all I can do at this point. And I happen to think God is listening.”

“Well, it won't do any good, you know,” he said. His voice held little emotion, as if he had shut himself off to it. “God abandoned this place a long time ago.”

“Not
my
God. He doesn't just abandon people.”

“You think so? You think He can save you? Because I've never seen Him save
anyone
from here.”

“I wouldn't underestimate Him if I were you.” Elina moved closer to the door. “What do you want?”

He held up a ladle to the window. “I brought you breakfast.”

“Is it morning already?”

He tapped the door. “You want it or not?”

“Yes.”

Elina heard something rattle and creak, and a small slat at the bottom of the door snapped open. A bowl slid through the opening, and the slat snapped shut again. Elina picked up the bowl and sniffed it. It was half-filled with what smelled like oatmeal. He'd given her no utensil and nothing to drink.

She sat down and ate the meal, scooping it into her mouth with her fingers. She was desperately hungry, and the bland, lumpy oatmeal paste did little to satisfy her appetite. She could see the guy still looking in through the bars in her door, so she decided to venture a question.

“Who are you?”

After a moment he replied, “No one. Nobody important.”

“You were part of the inquisition, right?”

“I . . . I was there to make sure you could still answer him.”

“So you're a medic . . . or a doctor or something?”

Another pause. “I'm a doctor.”

“A doctor.” Elina stood and moved to the door. “Then can you . . . can you at least tell me what's going on here?”

“Sorry, I can't give you any information.”

“Why not? Just tell me why you're keeping us prisoners here.”

“No.”

“At least tell me your name.” Elina moved to the window and peered through.

He hesitated, shifting his weight and avoiding eye contact.

Elina persisted gently. “Mr. Vale didn't say you couldn't tell me your name, did he?”

“Dwight,” he said finally.

“Dwight.” Elina tried to offer a pleasant smile. “I like that. Not many parents name their kids Dwight anymore.”

Dwight shrugged, still avoiding her eyes. “I guess.”

Elina probed further. “What do you do here? I mean besides overseeing the torture.”

“I do whatever he needs me to do.”

“So Mr. Vale . . . he's the big boss man in town. Does everyone in Beckon do what he tells them to do?”

Dwight shook his head. “It's not what you think. You don't know what it's like here. We have to do what he tells us or . . . or we'll die.”

“Really,” Elina said. “He has that much power? He's keeping you here against your will?”

“Well . . . not exactly.”

“So then you could leave if you wanted to?”

“Not exactly.”

Elina sighed. “Dwight, you're not making any sense.”

“It's complicated.”

Just then Miguel's voice came from across the passage.
“Son todos caníbales.”

“Vamos, cómeme!”
another voice yelled defiantly from down the corridor.

Dwight's face puckered in a quizzical frown. “
Cannibals?
Is that what you think we are?”

“That's what they all think,” Elina said. “Can you blame them? You kidnapped them. You brought them to your little town here and locked them up in your dungeon. You tell me what happens to them.”

Dwight shrugged. “Well, they get eaten, of course.”

“That's what they just—”

“But not by
us
.”

Elina backed away from the door. “What are you talking about?”

Dwight sighed. “Look, I wish I could help you. I really do. If it were up to me . . . you don't belong here. You don't deserve this.”

“What do you mean, ‘they get eaten'? What's going on here?”

Dwight stared at the ground for a moment. He looked over his shoulder and then leaned close. “There's something in the caves. Something . . . terrible.”

“What are you talking about?” Elina hadn't been prepared for this. Whatever was going on in this place, she was more concerned now that this Dwight fellow was mentally unstable.

“Believe me, the less you know, the better.”

“Please, just let us out.”

“I can't.” Dwight shook his head. “He'll kill me.”

“
Please
, Dwight. Please help us. You can't just let us die down here.”

“I told you, I
can't
help you. . . . I've said too much already.”

Elina was losing her patience. “You're a doctor! How can you be involved in this? If you don't help us, then you're a murderer, too—you know that, don't you?”

“No,” Dwight said. “I . . . I haven't killed anyone.”

“Yes, you have. You know what's going on here—you're a part of it. And you could let us go, but you're choosing not to. You're just as guilty as Vale in all of this. Whatever's going on here,
you're
responsible for it.”

“No!” Dwight backed away from the door. “You don't know me. You don't know anything about me.”

Elina stepped forward. “I think I do. You might've been a good person once. Before you came here.”

“Stop it.” Dwight moved farther away.

“So what happened to you? What turned you into a murderer?”

“I told you, I'm
not
a murderer.”

“It's your choice, Dwight. You don't have to do this.”

“No, it's not. I can't help you. . . .”

Elina moved closer still, feeling a certain boldness despite her circumstances. “Do you really think no one will ever find out about this place? You think you'll get away with this forever?”

Dwight stammered, “I . . . I have to leave.” He turned and disappeared up the tunnel.

“Dwight!” Elina called after him. “You
choose
what you are!”

Her voice echoed into the darkness, but Dwight didn't return. The other captives were shouting after him as well. Some cursing. Others wailing.

Elina slumped against her door, fighting back tears. Praying desperately. A feeling of dread wrapped around her like the darkness of the prison. She felt utterly alone. Buried so deep that no one would ever find her. All she had left inside her was a faint sliver of hope, like a thread suspending her over a vast abyss.

She'd prayed for several minutes when she heard voices in the corridor. One of the prisoners was pleading for help. She lifted her head. Had the doctor returned?

She heard a male voice call out in English, “Where are you?”

Next she heard a woman's voice. “Here, George. Help me open it.”

Elina stood and pressed her face against the bars of her door. She could hear someone rattling one of the door handles.

“They're all locked,” the man said. “We have to try to find the key.”

They sounded close by.

“We'll get you out. . . . Don't be afraid,” came the woman again. “We'll find the key.”

Elina called, “Who are you? What are you doing here?”

She could see the beam of a flashlight swinging back and forth in the corridor.

Elina reached her hand through the window. “Who are you?”

She heard footsteps as someone approached her cell. It was the woman. She stopped right outside the door and clutched Elina's fingers.

“Oh my . . . don't worry. We're going to get help.”

“How did you get down here?” Elina said.

The man arrived, carrying the flashlight. “We were snooping around the lodge and found this tunnel in the basement. It's hidden. We're . . . we're just guests there.”

He sounded kind . . . and Elina knew it could be a trap, but she could barely keep her hopes in check. She had to try, anyway.

“Guests? You know Thomas Vale?”

“Yes, he invited us here,” the woman said.

“Then listen to me. You're in danger too. You need to get out and call the FBI. You can't trust him. You can't trust any of them. None of the people in this town.”

“Who are you? Why did they lock you up down here?”

“I'm a police officer—from Los Angeles. My name is Elina Gutierrez. I was investigating a kidnapping. I followed the van here and they captured me.” Elina spoke quickly. “You need to contact the FBI. They're engaged in some kind of human trafficking here. There's something horrible going on.”

The man with the flashlight was searching the corridor. “We can't get these doors open. We have to go back and find the keys.”

“Please help us,” Elina pleaded. “You have to get help right away. Don't trust them. Don't trust any of them.”

The woman squeezed Elina's fingers. “We'll get you out of here. Don't worry. We'll get you out.”

Elina couldn't control her emotions any longer, and tears flooded her eyes. “I was praying that someone would find us. I was praying He would send someone to save us.”

The woman leaned in and said softly, “He heard you.” She was crying too. “God heard you.”

“We need to go—now.” The man's voice sounded urgent.

“Listen to me,” Elina said. “Be careful. There's something in the caves. They said there's something terrible down there.”

“Don't worry,” the man said as they started back up the tunnel. “We'll contact the FBI as soon as we can.”

And just like that, they were gone.

Part III

George

/  //  /

One has to pay dearly for immortality; one has to die several times while one is still alive.

Friedrich Nietzsche,

Ecce Homo

Chapter 21

Western Wyoming

Five days earlier

The old wooden sign read,
Welcome to Beckon. You're not here by chance.

At the time George Wilcox didn't pay much attention to the sign, as he was more occupied by the rustic clapboard buildings grouped along both sides of the road. A crusty, weathered gas station stood at the edge of town like an old watchman at the city gate. Beside it were a general store and a diner among a handful of shops and houses. The whole town seemed as out of the way as it could possibly be, cradled in the embrace of a steep, wooded bluff. And high above it loomed a gray mountainside that cut a jagged edge against the sky.

George pulled their white Lexus into a parking space in front of the modest one-story office directly across from the diner. The white hand-painted lettering on the front window read,
Dwight Henderson, MD
.

“Well, I guess this is it.” George shook his head and sighed. Not even the GPS had been able to locate this town, and had George not gotten directions over the phone—very specific directions—he'd never have found it at all.

Miriam sat quietly beside him, staring out the window. Her gray hair was pulled back neatly into a bun, and her gaunt face held no discernible expression. But she had come through their three-day road trip up from Texas like a trouper. Then again, she had always loved to travel. It seemed to be one of the few things about her that hadn't changed over the last four years.

George would never have driven this far with her, but the opportunity was too compelling to pass up and he was well beyond the point of desperation. Though now that he saw the town for himself, doubt was creeping back into his mind, and he couldn't shake the feeling that he'd made the worst mistake of his life.

George got out, and his aging body popped and creaked as he stretched. Being in the car for the better part of ten hours had stiffened his already-stiff joints. He was still in pretty good shape for seventy-three, but despite all the walking, swimming, and elliptical workouts, seventy-three sure didn't feel like forty. Heck, it didn't even feel like seventy.

He opened the door and helped Miriam out. It would do her good to stretch and walk around a bit.

“What beautiful mountains,” she said brightly. “How long are we staying?”

George took her arm, quietly thankful that she was in a good mood. “As long as you want, sweetheart.”

“Lovely. Did you see the mountains?”

“Yes, dear. They're beautiful.”

George found the doctor's front door unlocked and swung it open. “Hello?”

The place was tidy and quaint, George thought, exactly what most people would've expected a small-town doctor's office to look like. But it wasn't what George had expected.

Although he wasn't sure what he'd expected.

He heard a vehicle approaching and turned as a rust-colored Ford pickup pulled up and two men got out. The driver was a tall and sinewy fellow with reddish-brown hair, wearing a red plaid shirt and blue jeans. The other man was a much shorter, mousier chap, though slightly better dressed in a white shirt and tan trousers.

The taller man smiled and waved as he approached.

“Mr. Wilcox,” he said, extending his hand. “I'm Malcolm Browne, Mr. Vale's business manager. It's good to meet you.”

“Thank you,” George said and motioned to Miriam, who was standing nearby. “This is my wife, Miriam.”

“Of course.” Browne smiled and kissed her hand gently. “A very nice pleasure to meet you too, Mrs. Wilcox.”

Miriam was all grins. “I've seen you on my paper towels.”

Browne chuckled and turned back to George. “And I believe you already know Dr. Henderson, correct?” He motioned to his companion.

George blinked and nodded. “Oh . . . yes, we spoke on the phone a few times. Though you're a little younger than I had expected.”

Henderson smiled somewhat sheepishly. “Yeah, I get that a lot.”

Browne rubbed his palms together. “Well, you must be tired after your trip, and I know Mr. Vale has been very eager to meet you.”

“The feeling's mutual,” George said. “So where is he?”

Browne pointed up the wooded hillside to a magnificent log home perched near the top of the bluff, partially hidden by pine trees. “Just up the hill there,” he said, moving back toward his truck. “You can follow us and we'll head right on up.”

George shepherded Miriam into the car, and they followed the truck through town to a narrow gravel road. The road twisted up the steep, wooded incline, and as it did, George's doubts began to grow.

He knew Miriam would have counseled him to keep an open mind. She had always taken such a levelheaded approach to life. So calm and even-keeled. Mostly because of her faith, George thought, though he had only paid lip service to Miriam's religiousness before. Her devotion to her Bible and her steady reliance on prayer. He had always taken those things for granted but had come to miss their influence of late. Now that they were no longer there.

Now that she was being taken from him one memory at a time.

They had met in college fifty years earlier. George had graduated from Baylor as an aeronautical engineer and was immediately recruited by Lockheed. He worked his way quickly through the ranks of their management program while Miriam finished her degree, and they were married shortly thereafter.

George worked at Lockheed for twelve years before striking out on his own with a pair of fellow engineers. They started Aerodigm Technologies to manufacture select components for jet engines out of a plant in Ohio, but their business quickly expanded to more complex chemical-propulsion and missile-guidance systems. In a few more short years, they had plants across the country, and George had quietly built a solid reputation with Aerodigm's largely military clientele.

Meanwhile George and Miriam purchased a four-hundred-acre ranch outside of Austin. George drove the black Jaguar to work and saved his Porsche for the weekends, while Miriam preferred the less ostentatious silver Mercedes or the Lexus. The only point of stress they might have had was that after forty-eight years of marriage, they remained childless. Miriam had often suggested that they adopt, but George refused, preferring the freedom to travel over the burden of raising children that weren't even his own. They bought a second home in Colorado and a third in Maui. Life had been good to them. Very good. And for the most part, George Wilcox had always slept well at night.

Until four years ago.

George hadn't been prepared for the reality of Alzheimer's. The pain of watching himself become a stranger bit by bit to the woman who had once known him better than anyone else had. He would have rather lost her all at once than endure this slow, steady decay of her mind.

She had been the brightest ray of sunlight in his life for nearly fifty years. But now he hardly knew her. And all he had left of their life together were a few old pictures and videos.

Ahead, the road opened to reveal a better view of the log home. Pea gravel crunched under the tires as they rolled onto the wide, circular driveway. George whistled inwardly as he got out of the car. The place was palatial—at least fifty thousand square feet, he guessed. It looked too big to be a house, more like a small inn or lodge. Thick log beams and tons of smooth river rock provided a rustic yet majestic exterior, and George found himself eager to see the inside.

“Nice place.”

“It used to be a rather exclusive little hotel,” Browne said, now sounding more like a tour guide. “It was originally built by the Vale family in the early 1900s. They catered mostly to wealthy city folk who wanted to get out into the country and try their hand at hunting elk and such. Mr. Vale has gone to great lengths to restore and upgrade the facilities. I think you'll find them quite comfortable.”

Browne led them through the thick, wooden front doors and into an expansive flagstone foyer.

The woman who greeted them there was slender and attractive, with thick locks of burgundy hair pulled back in a tight bun.

“Welcome, Mr. Wilcox,” she said. “I'm Amanda McWhorter, Mr. Vale's personal assistant. He's very eager to meet with you.” She gestured to the hallway beyond the foyer. “If you'll just have a seat in the great room, I'll let him know you've arrived.”

The spacious, vaulted room beyond the staircase contained a set of leather couches facing each other. Behind them, an old barrel with rusted iron bands stood off to one side of the massive stone fireplace, and an antique wagon wheel garnished the other. And above the hearth hung an impressive rack of elk antlers.

Browne motioned to the couches. “Make yourself at home. I'll have your luggage brought up to your suite.”

George helped Miriam settle into one of the couches, and Dwight Henderson sat across from her. George walked over to take in the view from the wall of windows. The bank of glass overlooked a steep cliff with a dense forest of pines far below. Amid the trees, he saw sections of the gravel road that ran from the house through the wooded hillside to the town below. Beyond it lay a vast stretch of rolling bluffs that seemed to spread for miles to a row of mountains off in the distance. George breathed a sigh and shook his head. It was quite the vista.

“No matter how many times I look out there,” a voice said, “I never get tired of that view.”

George turned to see the man he assumed to be Thomas Vale. He looked to be perhaps in his early thirties, with an angular face and long black hair. His body appeared lean and trim beneath his black silk shirt and gray trousers.

“Welcome to Beckon, Mr. Wilcox.” Vale shook George's hand. “It's good to finally meet you in person. Can I offer you a drink?”

“No, thank you,” George said. He could see Vale's green eyes seemed to hold bright flecks of yellow pigment in the irises. The effect was slightly disconcerting.

Vale glanced at Henderson, who also declined the offer of a drink.

“Well, I guess I'll be drinking alone,” Vale said as he poured himself some brandy from the liquor cabinet across the room. “I imagine it must have been hard to believe when Dr. Henderson first contacted you. After all, how does one begin a conversation of this nature? I'm guessing you were pretty skeptical.”

“Still am.”

Vale sat down with his drink. “No doubt. But hopefully we can assuage those concerns.”

“I certainly hope so.” George nodded toward Henderson. “Dr. Henderson was pretty cryptic about the nature of this . . .
treatment
. Which, frankly, didn't help to inspire much confidence.”

“And yet here you are,” Vale said, spreading his hands. “I'm guessing you've gotten beyond a certain level of desperation. Perhaps to the point where you wondered what you had to lose.”

George sat down beside Miriam and ran his fingers across her shoulders. She'd been ignoring their conversation. Lately it seemed like she'd been ignoring him more and more, slowly drifting like a boat that had lost its moorings, floating away from the dock down a dark river.

“But you said this treatment has never been tried on someone with Alzheimer's before. How do you know it'll actually help her?”

“The human body is its own best medicine,” Henderson interjected. “Essentially all this treatment does is help the body heal itself.”

“I'm afraid the nature of it forces us to maintain a certain level of secrecy.” Vale let his gaze drift up to the ceiling and offered an odd sort of half smile. “You see, it's not exactly a
conventional
medical treatment.”

“What do you mean?”

Henderson leaned forward. “It's a remedy that a local Indian tribe has been practicing for . . . well, probably for hundreds of years.”

George stared at him, his mouth hanging open. “You're joking, right?”

“Now, Mr. Wilcox, we've actually—”

“You dragged me all the way up from Texas for some crazy Indian remedy? Are you
kidding
me?”

Henderson looked flustered. “As—as you recall, I explained that you would need to keep an open mind. I told you—”

“You didn't say anything about this being some hokey, superstitious nonsense. I never would have come.”

“Which is precisely why we didn't tell you,” Vale said in a calm tone.

“Mr. Wilcox,” Henderson said, “I've personally witnessed this treatment's effectiveness. Look, I don't believe in the supernatural either, but this is an organic compound that produces a real physiological effect. Now . . . of course the local . . . medicine woman insists on a certain ceremonial procedure, but the cure itself—I assure you—is an actual,
physical
compound.”

“What kind of compound?”

“It's called perilium,” Vale said.

“Yes, but what
is
it?” George said again. “You say it's some kind of organic compound, but that doesn't really tell me much.”

“For the moment all we can tell you is what I explained over the phone,” Henderson said. “Perilium enhances the body's natural immune system. And the body, in turn, responds to whatever disease state happens to be present. The end result is the same regardless of whether the patient suffers from cancer, MS, or indigestion. Or Alzheimer's. Perilium simply helps the body heal itself.”

George glanced at Miriam, wondering what he'd gotten her into. Though it wasn't as if they had many other options. If this perilium didn't work, she would spend the next three or four years suffering with her Alzheimer's and would eventually die. Or perhaps she'd have some sort of allergic reaction to the drug and die right away. Either way, she was no better off if he refused.

He took a breath and leaned back. “You're asking for a pretty big leap of faith. And a lot of money.”

“And in exchange, you get your wife back.” Vale's pleasant demeanor had evaporated a bit. “Exactly how much is that worth to you, Mr. Wilcox? How much would you pay to cure your wife's Alzheimer's? To
not
spend the next years watching her die a protracted and unpleasant death?”