Painless (33 page)

Chapter 74

Early Saturday afternoon, they checked in to a Best Western on the shore of Buggs Island Lake in Clarksville, under the name Chad Foley. Billy chose it for one specific amenity it offered—a direct view across the lake at the thick forest that protected the five hundred acres of Jordan Plantation.

Once secure in their room, Billy plotted their next move while Dana surfed the hotel’s Internet Service. Carolyn was in heavy negotiations to go swimming in the pool, which wouldn’t be the smartest idea under the circumstances.

Dana did an online search of the Albany newspaper to get an update on the search for the kidnapper. No surprise, they hadn’t found them. But she did come across the troubling headline related to the case.

Cab Driver Found Slain

According to the article, Martin Fleury, owner of Tech Valley Cabs, was shot to death in his Schenectady apartment after an alleged break-in. Billy knew who was really behind it. He immediately ran to the bathroom and regurgitated last night’s greasy Chinese food. “It’s my fault,” he cried out as Dana tried to comfort him.

“It’s not your fault,” Dana scolded. “These people are sick bastards.”

“Can we please go swimming?” Carolyn continued to plead from the other room.

Operation Anesthesia had proven that they’d ruthlessly go to any extent. Just like that security guard at the school, Martin had nothing to do with this. He might’ve even helped them by reporting Billy and Carolyn to the authorities. Billy’s hope crumbled, and he surrendered. “Let’s get her a bathing suit and take her swimming.”

Dana looked bewildered. They might as well take out an ad on their whereabouts. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“I don’t think she has a lot of time left. She should enjoy the time she has,” he whispered back.

Dana glanced at Carolyn, and then nodded sadly, an understanding taking over her face. She accepted what Billy already knew—they were running from death, and death always catches you in the end.

When they informed her that she would get to go in the pool, Carolyn jumped up and down and merrily sang a new song she concocted called “I’m going swimming!”

They ventured out into the sleepy Main Street in Clarksville as incognito as possible. First, they found a small boutique to purchase some new clothes. The good news was that the small-town boutique didn’t appear to have any security cameras.

Since they were running for their lives, they went with something called active wear. Billy got a long sleeved crew shirt, jeans, and a pair of cross-trainers. The always-fashionable Dana purchased a black tank top, which she wore under a French terry jacket, along with a pair of suede cotton pants with a drawstring. Carolyn couldn’t resist a red T-shirt proclaiming
Virginia is for Lovers
, which had been the state’s odd tourist motto for over forty years. The outside temperature was in the low sixties, but was expected to cool dramatically at night, so they also bought Carolyn a hooded fleece. A particular pair of jeans won out because they had a fish embroidered on them. Carolyn mentioned it reminded her of Puck. Another sign of her homesickness.

Clarksville was a haven for water enthusiasts, so Billy had no trouble locating a water-sports store to purchase a bathing suit for Carolyn, along with numerous flotation devices. Billy also bought three black wetsuits. He didn’t have an exact plan as to how to get inside Jordan Plantation, but he figured swimming might be involved. It would be a suicide mission, but at this point they had nothing to lose.

The gated motel pool was located on an embankment that led down to the lake. The sun began to set, lowering temperatures into the fifties, and the water wasn’t heated. It was way too cold to go swimming for a normal person. But for someone who couldn’t feel temperature sensation, it might as well have been a warm bath.

Carolyn wore her one-piece bathing suit. Plastic floatation devices covered her arms and legs like a suit of armor, annoying her sense of freedom, as did a nose clip. She looked like a cross between an alien and an astronaut. But it didn’t keep her down. She gleefully dove in with a yelp, swam with a spastic, uncoordinated doggy-paddle, and then repeated the process over and over like a scene from the movie
Groundhog Day
. She struggled with her swimming strokes, but her face was full of unyielding determination. A genetic trait handed down from her mother.

Carolyn couldn’t go a moment without yelling to Billy, who sat poolside with Dana, ready to dive in and save her if need be. She wanted to make sure they were giving their full attention, and was making quite a ruckus for someone who was hiding for her life. They were the only ones at the pool, but that didn’t mean the bad guys weren’t lurking in the shadows.

When her lips eventually began to turn blue, they forced her out, and Dana wrapped a towel around the soaked girl.

Billy’s attention was diverted. He walked to the pool fence and glared out toward the lake, watching a small motorboat speed by. His eyes then drifted across the lake in the direction of Jordan Plantation.

Dana came up beside him and asked, “Do you really think that’s where Chuck and Beth are being held?”

“I don’t know, but I know somebody who does,” he said, picturing Dr. Samuel Jordan in his mind.

Chapter 75

Beth checked herself in the mirror, modeling the perfect-fitting cotton dress that was provided for her. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d worn a dress. The circumstances were far from ideal, but it was nice to feel like a girl again.

It was Saturday afternoon and she had made plans to attend a church service with her new friend, Miss Rose, that evening. A woman who coyly played the game for years, until she was presented with that one glorious moment in which she could help her children. Beth vowed to act like a Kool-Aid drinking convert for fifty years if there was even a speck of a chance it might help Carolyn. She’d make any sacrifice for her.

No surprise, Chuck took a different approach. He was ready to rumble 24/7. Nobody was going to hurt his girls without getting to personally know Chuck Whitcomb’s fists. The loyal goony to the end. Beth was about strategic defense, while Chuck believed in firing first and asking questions later.

A knock rattled the door. Beth meandered over, expecting Miss Rose. But to her surprise, it was one of the trainers.

“Please follow me,” he said coldly.

In the spirit of Miss Rose, she obeyed, no questions asked. She stepped into the hallway and to the back of a slave conga line that included about twenty other female “residents.” They were marched to the elevator in two symmetrical lines like a third grade class during a fire drill. Not a word was spoken—the only sound was the eerie echoing of footsteps.

Small groups were dispatched in the elevator under the watchful eye of the trainers. Beth’s group was last. During her wait, her eyes searched for Miss Rose. The other “residents” made up a diverse cross-section of ethnicity usually only found on the ferry ride to the Statue of Liberty. But not one was a middle-aged African-American woman. Beth had a sinking feeling that something had happened to her new friend.

The elevator took them up to the gazebo. There, the “warden” gathered everyone and took a head count. After taking attendance, he escorted the group across the manicured grounds to the same park where Miss Rose had taken Beth the previous day. She saw three other groups of “residents” who were regimentally following different trainers to the park in single-file lines. The sky was different than the first day she was brought to “Utopia Park.” It was an October blue/gray with little sun.

The weather wasn’t the only difference Beth noticed. This time a bulky, wooden platform was set up in the middle of the tranquil park. She recognized it as a contraption used to hang rebellious slaves back in the not-so-good ole’ days of plantation life. That dark history was now returning to life right before Beth’s eyes. When she discovered the identity of the woman with the noose wrapped around her neck, Beth felt sick.

Miss Rose had a defiant look. She looked a little scared and unsure, but she wasn’t giving in. She had sacrificed everything for her children and would give up her life for them without hesitation. That’s what mothers do—it was in their DNA. She seemed at peace, even if she wouldn’t go peacefully.

Beth didn’t hold any such contented feelings. Her lone confidante was about to be hung, likely a punishment for helping her children to freedom. Beth felt guilt for bringing up Calvin yesterday, causing Miss Rose to drop her guard. She was quickly learning that Big Brother was always watching in this place.

Then appearing on the platform was Dr. Jordan. Looking like a clean-shaven Lincoln, he wore a black stovepipe top hat, along with an elaborately cut dark jacket that focused Beth’s eye to his torso, a very popular style in the 1860s. Only the perilous situation of her friend could keep Beth from laughing at the insane absurdity of the whole thing.

Jordan faced the audience of onlookers, most of them wearing apprehension on their faces. But nobody protested. Beth theorized that they’d lost their will to fight a long time ago.

“This is a sad day for me,” Jordan addressed the audience, his charming southern accent cutting through the brisk air. “Life here at the plantation is about benevolence. I’m not a man of violence; in fact, I have dedicated my life to saving lives. But I’m pragmatic enough to understand that every society must have a certain level of order and discipline.

“The reason y’all were chosen to be here today, was that unlike the children born on the plantation, you’ve had your minds shaped by the outside world. We didn’t choose to bring you here—you were called by a higher power—and in return we’ve provided a society of peace, security, and stability. Our only rule of law is that you don’t corrode the minds of those who never were of the outside. At the root of every society is a rule of law to protect its innocent citizens, and that is why we must listen to your conversations—to protect you. And that’s how we learned of the treason committed by Miss Rose.”

All eyes shot toward Miss Rose. She was no longer acting like the cheerful tour guide. Her face radiated the iron will of a woman whose only regret was having just one life to give for her children. But Beth also recognized the look of concern on her face, a look only a mother could recognize. The concern was not for her own life, but for her other children still on the plantation, and those who made it to freedom.

Jordan sadly shook his head. “I’ve come to know Miss Rose as a loyal partner and friend. I prayed last night for God to not let me wake today, so I didn’t have to do this. It pains my heart, but Miss Rose betrayed us, and by doing so, put many of your children in danger on what turned out to be their final mission in Iran. I consider them my children also, and Miss Rose is responsible for their deaths.”

The crowd turned their favor towards Jordan. In a rare display of passion, they hissed at Miss Rose. It wasn’t exactly a fair trial, but Beth was pretty sure that nobody who ever died on that platform got a fair trial.

As she continued scanning the crowd, and avoiding any eye contact with Miss Rose, Beth noticed that everyone present was female. Chuck and the other “sperm donors” weren’t invited.
The mothers
, Beth thought. Jordan wanted to play on the loyalty of the mothers to their children. Everything he did was calculated.

“Let this be a lesson to y’all,” Jordan stated, and then suddenly bolted off the stage, hunched with sadness.

Simultaneously, the trap door opened under Miss Rose, plummeting her toward the ground. After about a ten-foot drop, the rope violently jerked her neck upward and she bounced to a halt. Miss Rose was anchored in an evil purgatory, halfway between the stand and the ground, the bloodthirsty noose cutting off her air. Her pride-filled eyes were lucid. Beth knew she would do it again if given the chance.

Beth couldn’t look at the awful sight. She sharply twisted her head away from the hanging woman. When she did, she noticed another woman. A woman in the crowd who looked deeply saddened by what was going on, different from the cold, defeated looks of the others.

There was another thing that caught Beth’s eye about this woman, and her heart almost exploded.

“It can’t be,” she muttered to herself.

Chapter 76

Sunday was never an off day for Dr. Jordan. His favorite line was, “I’ll take Sunday off when kids take off being sick on Sundays.”

He was in his office at the children’s hospital bright and early, prepared for a full schedule of consultations with worried parents, the farthest coming from Chile to see him. He kept his comforting smile plastered on his face all day, including emceeing the annual Halloween party. Halloween was still two weeks away, but when it came to sick children, there was no point in putting things off until tomorrow. There might not be one.

In the mid-afternoon, he left the hospital, driving his Escalade across town to his other office in the research complex of Duke University. The offices were mostly empty on Sundays, allowing him to grade midterm papers without interruption. While the offices in Duke Medical were empty, the campus was not. A carnival-like atmosphere had taken over the campus, anticipating the celebration of Midnight Madness later that night. Midnight Madness was a party-like tip-off to the college basketball season. It officially started when the clock struck midnight—the first moment the team was legally allowed to practice—but that didn’t stop the students from getting the party started early.

Sundays also provided the freedom to safely hold status calls with Naqui. Phone calls between doctors of their stature would not raise any alarms. They took place at exactly 4:30 p.m., and as always, Naqui was promptly on time, down to the second.

“I’m very concerned,” Naqui began, skipping hello.

Jordan reclined in his chair and placed his feet up on his desk. “Since our friend, Sassafras, was supposed to deliver the next recruit by Tuesday, and today is Sunday, I would say your concern is warranted, Dash.” Jordan could tell the nonchalance in his voice annoyed the always-intense Naqui, whom he liked to tweak.

“Do you mean Hasenfus?”

“Hasenfus, Sassafras, Horses-ass, I don’t care if he wants to be called Mr. Snuffaluffagus, he’s an abomination anyway you slice it.”

“And to make matters worse, the third Rose child is still loose, and what he knows could ruin all of us,” Naqui responded.

“Can’t say I’m surprised by any of this, Dash. I think it’s time we place a new person in charge of security. It has been sloppy and sub-standard. In the interim, I’ve taken it upon myself to temporarily take over all security at the plantation. In fact, I had a little meeting with the mothers yesterday to let them know there was a new sheriff in town.”

“I’m planning a trip down there tomorrow. We need to discuss a reorganization of the operation, including a reduced role for Hasenfus.”

“What will our contact in Washington say about that?”

They never mentioned Rutherford’s name in twenty years and weren’t going to start now. While Stipe’s name was never mentioned on the phone, Rutherford’s was never mentioned at all.

“He has his own problems at the moment with a certain pit-bull senator. We are the least of his worries,” Naqui stated confidently.

“Hasenfus will not go quietly. And as crazy as it sounds, if we cut him out, I think he’d trade a long prison sentence to talk to the congressional commission, in order to bring us all down. I actually think he might enjoy the theater of it.”

“Let him. We have nothing to be ashamed of. We have saved countless lives.”

“Get off your high horse, Dash. Our work is medically groundbreaking, no doubt, but let’s not act like we’re not enslaving people because the accommodations are five-star and we have wrapped the motives in a flag.”

Jordan had predictably hit Naqui’s patriotic nerve, just as he intended. He could feel Naqui burning through the phone. “I will see you tomorrow,” Jordan said and hung up with a smile, declaring himself the victor.

Moments later, the phone rang once more. Naqui could never let an argument die, always having to be right. Jordan, on the other hand, didn’t need others to validate him. He didn’t
have
to be right because he
was
always right.

He recognized the voice, but it wasn’t Naqui. This call was much more serious. Jordan pulled his feet off the desk and tensed.

“We can do this one of two ways,” the voice said, “I can go before Congress and tell all your dirty little secrets, or you can follow my instructions and perhaps we can work out a deal.”

Jordan tried some forced charm, but it hit a brick wall.

“You will go to the Duke Forest and enter Gate C at exactly 5:30,” the voice said, and then rattled off specific instructions, which Jordan jotted illegibly on a handy prescription pad. The man ended the phone call with an eerie warning, “I’ll be watching you, just like I
have
been watching you.”

Jordan knew he had no choice. He needed to put an end to this. He slipped a windbreaker over a lavender Polo shirt that was tucked into his Sunday jeans, which he wore with loafers. He unlocked his desk and pulled out his 9mm handgun and stuck it into the pouch pocket of his windbreaker.

He walked south out of the research building and across the quiet medical campus. He passed Fitzpatrick Center and entered the festive West Campus, filled with face-painted students and the rhythmic pounding of bands. As he got closer to the historic basketball arena—Cameron Indoor Stadium—the noise grew exponentially.

Jordan turned west and walked into the sharp October sun that was setting in the distance. His eyes moved like buzzing gnats. His calm demeanor evaporated.

The entrance to the Duke Forest was located about a mile west of campus. Eight thousand acres of recovered farmlands and patches of forest that were purchased by the university in the mid 1920s. Its primary purpose had always been to provide a natural outdoor laboratory for environmental research and education. But it’s one of the few private research facilities also used for public recreation.

Jordan arrived at a gravel parking area. Very few people were present on a late Sunday afternoon, as he expected, and so probably did the caller. The forest also closed at sundown—about a half hour away—which was likely part of the caller’s plan.
Smart,
Jordan conceded—a dark, deserted area would be to the caller’s advantage. There was only one empty vehicle in the parking lot, a beat-up old van. And the only people he noticed were a couple of Duke students who seemingly just returned from a hike, being badgered for money by a war veteran in a wheelchair.

Upon entering the forest through Gate C, the first thing Jordan noticed was a modern picnic shelter that sat about a hundred feet inside the gate. He walked to the third rustic picnic-table just as he was instructed, and reached underneath. He peeled off the instructions that were taped beneath. It instructed him to walk Shepherd’s Nature Trail, a one-mile self-guided trail that was popular with hikers.

Gradually the wide, graveled road became a narrow dirt trail that could only be traveled on foot. The rhythmic pounding of a woodpecker was the only break in the silence. Jordan’s feet crunched brush and blackberry tangles as he walked deeper into the forest, passing imposing oaks. The trail was empty and he felt a huge bull’s-eye on him. He thought about turning back, but knew that wasn’t an option.

The sun began to set in fast-forward as he crossed over a stream, using a manmade bridge. The forest grew thicker, the many oak, maple, and sycamore trees appearing to grow larger before his eyes. He followed the wooden directional signs that were nailed to the hulking trees, just as the caller’s instructions indicated, and then the path started to look familiar. He realized he had looped around to the picnic area where he started.

The sinking sun was hanging directly in Jordan’s sightline. He shielded his eyes with his hand, and what he saw through his squinting eyes was the army veteran in the wheelchair, holding a gun directly at Jordan’s head.

“Why should I not shoot you right now?” the man asked angrily, still sitting in the chair.

“I think we can work something out,” Jordan nervously stammered, now recognizing the man as the caller.

“There is nothing to work out.”

“If you shoot me, then you will never see your mother again.”

“You are going to take me to her right now!”

“I don’t have that kind of power.”

“Make a call and find someone who does...or you die. And if you try anything funny you will die in a more brutal fashion.”

Jordan didn’t doubt him—the man was a trained killer. Jordan showed his hands. “I’m just going to slowly reach into my pocket and pull out my cell phone.”

The man nodded approval, but monitored the process with suspicious eyes. Jordan unzipped his pouch pocket and slowly reached inside. He gradually maneuvered his fingers around the trigger of his gun. He knew he had to be quick.

In one quick motion he pulled it out, ready to fire…

He was too late.