The Whisper Box (22 page)

Grant shifted his weight in his library chair. He moved his head from his right arm to his left and then wiped the drool from his mouth. The librarian looked in his direction from a far. She stared out of the corner of her eyes and then went back to her work.

When Jason awoke on Anson's couch the next morning he was a little scared and a little excited at the same time. He heard a noise coming from down the hall and could smell the fresh greasy bacon as well as the eggs. The aroma almost made him salivate. He turned the corner and saw old Mr. Ripple cooking up a breakfast feast.

“Mornin' boy! How was the couch?” Dr. Ripple was in a great mood this morning.

“Uh, it was OK I guess. I drove all day yesterday so anything would have worked.” Jason was still squinting around the kitchen trying to find a coffeepot.

He told Jason that he was excited today because they were about to go into eight hours, at least, of some major reconstructive surgery.

After breakfast the two of them went into Anson's office where Anson showed Jason graph after graph. Anson and Jason planned on straightening his nose while elongating it slightly. Ripple explained how he could move Jason's hairline back slightly. He showed him how he would raise his cheekbones and actually reshape his eyes. He kept referring to a Hawaiian man. “Your eyes will almost look like you are from Hawaii.”

Jason just took it all in. He asked a question from time to time but overall, he trusted the doctor. He also figured that he had nothing to lose at all so why not just go for it. The one thing he really did not like was that Anson told him that the recovery time would take at least five weeks. Jason was expected to stay at Ripple's estate the entire time so Anson could properly care for the wounds twenty-four hours a day. He wanted no scars. He wanted this job to be perfect. He immediately shut his practice for the next six weeks.

Jason was excited to hear that Anson took the liberty of making a call or two after Jason fell asleep on the couch last night. All of his new identification cards that did not require a photo would be here in the morning. The others would be ordered after his incisions healed and he could take pictures.

After their talk, they moved towards Anson's operating room. Jason was given the mouthpiece. He sucked in deeply and felt the gas running through his nostrils. The cold air through his nostrils was soothing. Within seconds his feet began to tingle and his chest began to lighten. Before he knew what happened he was drifting off into a dream. Dr. Ripple went to work. He broke Jason's nose first and maneuvered it the way he wanted. He made sure there was no blockage. He moved then to his hairline, then to the chin, then the cheekbones. The entire operation took about nine hours with Dr. Ripple listening to Chopin the entire time. He stood back at the end and admired his work. He bandaged Jason across his nose, cheeks, chin, temples and forehead. Jason looked like he was wearing a Halloween mask. Anson waited for his patient to wake up.

Jason woke up about an hour later, but Anson Ripple kept him heavily drugged. He would remain this way for at least a week drifting in and out of consciousness, while never being totally aware of the procedure that had just been performed on him. He laid in bed for a week while Dr. Ripple tended to him. He kept Chopin playing in the recovery room softly most of the day. He fed him three times daily with mostly applesauce. It hurt Jason to even open his mouth. He removed the bandages daily to apply an assortment of creams to his scars thus cutting down any risk of scar tissue build up. He had become Dr. Ripple's own personal project.

By day number ten Anson began to wean Jason off the drugs. There was still pain but not nearly as much as he would have felt the first ten days without the drugs. Jason became more and more aware of what he was going through. Everyday at lunchtime Dr. Ripple would put his hand on Jason's knee and say, “Be patient son. I promise you everything is turning out fine.”

Jason knew in his heart that he was under the best care possible so he never really panicked.

After the fourteenth day Dr. Ripple removed the bandages for good but continued his application of oils and ointments to the scars. Jason was only taking Tylenol for the pain now and nothing else. His face was still bruised heavily but the work was starting to become more noticeable. With each passing day the swelling went down more and more. Finally by the end of the third week Jason was able to recognize his new facial features in a mirror.

On day twenty-six Jason finally asked the doctor about the identifications he had promised him. The altered documents cost five thousand dollars. They were top of the line. They were completely untraceable and Dr. Ripple picked up that tab as well. He told Jason to relax in his chair while he went to go retrieve them.

He came back into the room with a large manila envelope grasped tightly between his fingertips. He gave Jason a confident smile and turned over the envelope to him. Jason opened the gold metal clasp at the top of the envelope and reached his hand in. He pulled out a stack of paperwork. Two credit cards fell into his lap. He noticed the birth certificate on the top of the pile. His new name was printed across the front of it.

McFarland Hart III headed for the basement slowly. He did not know if he could handle seeing his friend's dead body. This man, John Harris had been so kind to him. He died for him, an innocent man trying to help another person in trouble. He befriended him within minutes and would remain a Saint in McFarland's heart forever.

He walked down the same set of steps thinking everyone in the house was dead but could not be too sure of anything right now. There could be a third gunman that had been hiding waiting to shoot Mac. The dead man lying next to John could still be alive -- enough to aim his gun and pull the trigger. When Mac got to the bottom of the steps he saw the puddle before he saw anything. He followed the puddle with his eyes until the stream led to the two men lying next to each other in a dark amber pool of blood. He rushed the back of his hand up to his mouth and swallowed hard. This was the most devastating thing he had ever seen, even more devastating than Laura.

Mac swallowed hard and then sat on the steps. He put his head in his lap and began to cry. His body was completely spent. His felt as if his nerves could spontaneously combust. He knew he could not handle the pressure much longer. He tried to gather himself and control his emotions long enough to get out of this cabin, but the sight of John Harris was too much. Mac broke down into a hysterical, screaming cry. He started kicking his feet into the steps as he sat there. He was trying to think of what to do next. He danced with the idea of giving John a proper burial in the woods, but that would not be fair to his family. Someone was going to find him soon. His family would want to give him a proper funeral.

After about five minutes he collected his thoughts and emotions and worked his way down to the bottom of the steps. He stood at the edge of the blood searching for a way to get to the men lying there without walking through it. There was no way around. He walked gingerly so not to slip and fall. He went to John Harris first. He was lying on his stomach now. Mac kissed his own fingertips and touched John with that hand in the center of his back. He then tried to brace his feet and yanked on the man to roll him over to his back. When he turned John over he saw only half of his head, the other half was smothered in the blood and about the basement. The smell was closing in on Mac's stomach and it would not be long before he threw up.

He felt around John's big waist for some kind of utility belt with a cell phone or other means of communication. There was nothing there. He was about to feel around inside John's coat for an inside pocket until he heard a phone ringing behind him, coming from inside the jacket of the gunman lying at his feet.

Mac turned towards him, bent over and reached in his pocket. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes with a pack of matches neatly tucked inside the cellophane wrapping and the ringing phone. He battled with the idea of answering the phone. After all, not answering the phone may be some kind of signal to send in re-enforcement. If he did answer the phone in a disguised voice and could not speak some type of top-secret language or answer some special top-secret question some back up gunmen may be alerted to enter the premises. Before Mac could make up his mind the phone stopped ringing.

He looked at the small black phone. He studied the front, then flipped it over and studied the back. This phone had to be “bugged” somehow. Mac could not use this phone if it were bugged. He had to open it up and run the risk of not being able to repair it. He walked over to the darkest part of the cellar. He could vaguely make out a tool bench there. He began blindly feeling around for something to pry the phone open with. His hands found a screwdriver. He walked back towards the light and studied the phone once again. He could probably pry the phone apart at its seam in the middle. He worked the screwdriver head into the seam and slowly began to try and coax the two pieces of plastic apart rather than apply too much pressure and break them. After a minute of just enough pressure, the phone's casing popped open.

Sure enough, by the microphone behind the mouthpiece was another smaller microphone. Obviously this piece transmitted any conversation back to a third party. It had no wires connecting it anywhere. It must have been used with a remote of some sort. Mac grabbed his screwdriver again and jimmied underneath it. The 'bug' popped out instantly and rolled across the cement floor. Mac fit the casing back together and pushed lightly. He heard the two pieces snap back together snugly. He had no idea who to call right now but his clean clothes, new guns, and new phone would only help him in his travels. He headed back upstairs to go back out into the woods.

When Mac returned to ground level he picked up his backpack and threw it over his shoulders. He had guns in the backpack and one neatly tucked into his pants. He ran through the central area of the cabin where the desk was with its brochures. He ran past the fireplace and the old orange couches that actually looked pretty good in the log cabin. He was about to exit through the back door where the other gunman was lying dead when his peripheral vision caught one of the scariest sights he would ever see. There was a pool of blood in this room from the man that Mac blindly shot from the woods not more than fifteen minutes ago. The only thing missing from the pool of blood was the dead man that was supposed to be lying in the center of it.

Mac's heart was pounding with unhealthy power. His chest was hurting. He had most certainly shot the other gunman. He saw him lying there five minutes ago. He would have sworn that he was dead. This man could be anywhere. Most likely he was somewhere tending to his heavy bleeding. Without completely thinking, Mac broke into a sprint out the door towards the woods.

He was half way to the deep, thick woods when the first shot rang out. Mac could feel its force sail by him. The force of the bullet flying by his ear was so great that he thought he was hit at first. He was ready to drop to the ground when he realized that the bullet had missed him. He picked up speed again and saw a bolt of fire hit a rock on the ground about five or ten feet in front of him. Another bullet had missed him. He reached the woods finally with no new bullet holes. The first big tree Mac passed was going to become his personal bodyguard. Mac found it and tucked behind it.

Mac Hart III peeked his head around the side of the tree but saw nothing. He remembered how the last bullet hit the ground. If it was traveling downward towards the ground then the gunman must have been above him as he was running. He shot his eyes up into the trees. There were not many between him and the cabin since he was actually at the edge of the woods. He then looked up on the roof. There was no movement but there was a large brick chimney up there. The gunman could possibly be hiding behind it. McFarland Hart always had impeccable vision. He was the ideal example of 20/20 vision. He fixed his eyes on the roof for the first sign of movement.

As Mac began to convince himself that the gunman must have given up, another shot rang out towards his tree. He had an idea where it had come from and it was not from the roof. Mac wanted no part of this professional killer. He sprinted back into the woods. He would not stop for the first ten minutes. His shoulder was throbbing in pain and he had new cuts from new whips from branches he just ran threw. His snakebite was also throbbing because of the pressure the running placed on his leg. Mac came to a creek and knelt down beside it. He was drinking as much water as he could when off in the distance he heard footsteps running towards him.

He froze like a deer staring down the barrel of a demented hunter’s rifle. He was afraid to move. He was afraid of everything at this point. He listened as the footsteps drew closer and slowed down. The creek he was kneeling by was about three feet below ground level so the gunman could not see him. Mac thought the gunman had to be equally as scared as he. Unless he had night vision goggles, he too had to be afraid of that which he could not see. The rustling of the leaves stopped now. This man was also taking a breather or maybe kneeling further down the same stream drinking some water.

Mac refused to move until someone forced his hand. If the gunman would not reveal his location than neither would Mac. It was a standoff in the middle of the night in complete blackness. Mac thought about putting his flashlight in a tree and turning it on than running from it. When the gunman began to fire at the flashlight he would reveal his location against his will and Mac could shoot him. In order for Mac to do this though it would take some ridiculous nerve; nerve is what he did not have.

Neither man moved for twenty minutes and Mac's comfortable position in the leaves were making a nap seem tempting. He was exhausted but this was no time for sleep. As his eyes were closing Mac would bite his arm until more of his blood would spurt out. He was in a situation where he could not fall asleep. Even if he did, the gunman was probably going through the same battle with his bodily elements. Who would know if the other was sleeping? Mac nodded off for about five minutes. When he woke up it was with a slight and sudden jump. Leaves rustled below his feet and the gunman broke out into a wild frenzy of firing. Bullets flew over Mac's head at an alarming speed. Obviously the gunman had no idea of the geographical landscape because he was actually firing above the level of ground that Mac was on. The creek he knelt by was on a slight decline from ground level. Eight bullets sailed over Mac's head before they stopped again. Mac heard slow foot steps coming closer again. He was shaking uncontrollably now, yet remaining completely quiet.

Mac's only choice now was to move. He was being cornered into his position like a pawn on a chessboard. He could not be a sitting duck. Just then a thought hit Mac. It was completely dark outside. If Mac turned on his flashlight an immediately threw a line drive through the woods. This man would start firing towards the moving flashlight. The explosion of gunpowder from his gun would create enough light for a split second to reveal his position. Mac had no more choices left. He turned the light on and zipped it as hard as he could deeper into the woods.

Instantly there was a response from about thirty feet behind him over his left shoulder. He heard the leaves rustle and he could make the man out as the gun fired. The gunman's silhouette lit up every time another shot rung out. Mac aimed for his chest and fired. The shots stopped at that moment and Mac could hear a body hit the floor of leaves and twigs. He had to approach this man and kill him for good. This thought sickened Mac more as this entire ordeal was torturing his soul.

He crouched down and moved toward the man lying in the leaves. He was close enough now where he could make out the outline of his motionless body. He heard the man speaking to him. “I have no gun. I dropped it when you shot me. You are safe. You won.”

Mac could not move. Every muscle in his body froze as if a ghost were talking to him. The fallen man spoke again. “It's OK. I promise. This is my job and that’s your job. You won. Come closer.” He coughed on his own blood.

Mac dropped his pistol by his side and approached the man. He frisked his body thoroughly. He was telling the truth; he had no weapons. Mac whispered, “I'm sorry. You gave me no choice.”

“I know, I know.” He coughed again on his blood. “I have a favor to ask of you.”

“What is it? What do you need?” Mac was more than willing to grant this man one last dying wish. He was crying again and would do anything for this man right now.

“I need you to put me out of my misery. I don't want to be alive while animals help themselves to me. I want to die. Please, just do it.”

“C'mon man, I can help you back to the cabin and then run off to do my thing. On my way I can call 911 or something and alert them of where to find you.”

“Buddy, I'm gonna be dead within a half hour. Please just put me out of my misery and get the hell out of here. I swear I forgive you and understand that I left you no choice.” His voice got louder as he spoke more. “Please, just shoot me in the back of the head! Please just kill me!”

Mac pointed the pistol at the man's forehead before he could think it through and fired. He just killed another man. He collapsed right there in the woods and shook again. Tears raced out of his eyes and sweat poured from his forehead. He had to get to a small town where he could pass off the tapes he had like the Olympic torch to the next idiot that was willing to destroy his life. Mac knew he would never be a sane man again. Insanity had taken over his thoughts and actions. He was on the verge of suicide. He hugged the man he had just killed. He said a short prayer for him and fell back to the earth. Snakes were of no importance to him right now.

Mac sat in the leaves with his pistol to his head for thirty seconds. He really could pull the trigger but he promised Laura Greene that he would see this through. He did not want to commit suicide on a broken promise. He would go on for Laura. He no longer cared for his law firm. He wanted to die for now, immediately following a successful delivery of the tapes he had in his possession.

After an hour of looking at his boots while sitting Indian style in the woods, Mac rose to his feet and began walking. Sooner or later he would find a town where he could try again to contact Grant. He would set up a meeting to hand over the tapes. He would tell Grant everything.

Mac had hiked for hours. He assumed he had traveled at least five miles, maybe more. There was no sign of a town anywhere but the woods had thinned out considerably. He had to be headed towards something. He had seen four deer already and was tempted to shoot one of them for food if he were stranded out in the woods much longer. The sun was coming up on what seemed like was going to be a beautiful day. He never knew how gorgeous the forest could be in the morning. The orange and brown leaves that were scattered throughout the forest floor were all dampened by morning dew. The sun rising up sliced through the tall thin trees and glistened across the floor. The birds were all singing back and forth to each other like a Church choir. His emotional state was improving by the minute.