Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Chapter 79

Chapter 80

Chapter 81

Chapter 82

Chapter 83

Chapter 84

Chapter 85

Chapter 86

Chapter 87

Chapter 88

Chapter 89

Chapter 90

Chapter 91

Chapter 92

Chapter 93

Chapter 94

Chapter 95

Chapter 96

Chapter 97

Chapter 98

Chapter 99

Epilogue

Painless

Derek Ciccone

Copyright© 2010 Derek Ciccone

Painless is available in print at all major online retailers or through www.derekciccone.com

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Preview Painless book trailer at You Tube

Blog: Derek's Novel Ideas

email: derekbkclb@yahoo.com

This book is dedicated to all those who make the daily sacrifices to help others, which includes mother’s at home, soldiers abroad, and everybody in-between. That is what the work for the “greater good” really is.

Prologue

Mitchell Jones’s Labor Day wouldn’t be filled with parades or barbecues, and he didn’t get the day off from work. He was thousands of miles from home, sitting quietly at a kitchen table in a small house in Malmo, a city on the southern coast of Sweden.

His assassin-like stillness was only occasionally interrupted to check his watch, or dispassionately stroke his long, graying beard. The beard, along with his wiry frame and dark, vacant eyes, gave him a resemblance to a certain infamous terrorist. This made flying commercial virtually impossible. But for his job with Operation Anesthesia, he didn’t have to.

As Sunday night slowly morphed into Monday morning, he patiently read his favorite author—Herbert Spencer—while waiting for the Lerner family to return from the United States. The news that the Lerners received from the US doctors was no doubt life-altering, but little did they know that Mitchell Jones was about to really change their lives forever.

Based on eighteen years of experience, he didn’t expect a confrontation. He knew the Lerner’s minds would be too cluttered to notice the obvious signs that someone had broken into their home, such as the lights he arrogantly left on, or the lingering odor from his chain-smoking. But if an altercation did occur, he was under direct orders to take everyone alive.

This went against Jones’s natural instinct to shoot first and ask questions later, a philosophy that got him fired from his old job at the CIA. But Operation Anesthesia didn’t see it as a black mark on his résumé. In fact, it was the reason they sought him out all those years ago. But sadly, like most things, their survival instincts had softened over time.

He took an extended drag on his cigarette, attempting to relieve some of the pain that was a souvenir from a recent mission in Iran. A mission that went awry, to say the least. Sixty percent of the area from his chest to his feet was burned from the fiery helicopter crash. The cigarette wasn’t a very good anesthetic.

Not even the best spin-doctor could heal the colossal failure of Iran. Any mission where you are presumed dead, and that’s the good news, was not one for the time capsule. But thanks to Jones’s survival instincts, he and his boss, Franklin Stipe, were preparing a dramatic rise from the dead. A resurrection in which Stipe would likely portray himself as the brave hero, leaving out the part where Jones guided him to safety, allowing him to avoid the cruel fate of the others they left behind.

But he smiled anyway, exposing his cigarette-stained teeth. He knew Stipe wouldn’t be in power much longer. His inevitable fall was dictated by the laws of nature, or what Spencer so brilliantly termed “the survival of the fittest.” A concept wrongly credited to Darwin and his theories of evolution. Herbert Spencer actually coined the phrase in his 1864 masterpiece, Principles of Biology.

In it, Spencer created the model that applied his law of “survival of the fittest” to society. He warned that humanitarian impulses had to be resisted, as nothing should be allowed to interfere with nature’s laws. This differed from Stipe, who sought useless elements such as glory, acceptance, and credit. As did the culture of modern America, which embraced concepts like love, happiness, and religion. It chipped away at its inherent survival skills, softening the society, and making it a target for its predators. But of course, that was the reason Operation Anesthesia was created in the first place.

The front door creaked open and a weary family entered, two-and-a-half-year-old Petr sleeping in his mother’s arms. Their bright blond hair didn’t appear to be dimmed by the life-changing news they had received on their trip, but each step they took was marked with exhaustion. Jones was sure the physical fatigue didn’t even compare to the mental strain of trying to grasp Petr’s diagnosis.

Upon reaching the kitchen, they were met by Mitchell Jones and his 9mm Glock. He coldly explained to the Lerners that their trip had just begun and it would be in their best interest to quietly cooperate. The father declined the offer, yelling, “Aldrig i helvete”—no way in hell—and Jones could kiss his behind, “Kyss mig i arslet.”

Jones went right for his weak spot, knowing a little Swedish of his own. “Jagt skar av dina ballar om du inte haller kaft,” he calmly stated, threatening to remove the man’s testicles.

The man stood down.

Predictable.

He knew the mother would be tougher. They always were. When it came to their children they were true survivalists like him, willing to fight to the death. So he immediately went with a pre-emptive attack—threatening to kill Petr.

She cooperated.

There would be no need to bind and gag them. He used a concoction created for Operation Anesthesia by one of the world’s leading neurologists, which would temporarily paralyze the body, including voice. And when Jones expertly injected each of the family members with a syringe containing the paralyzing drug, it didn’t surprise him that young Petr didn’t wake, or even flinch.

He effortlessly loaded the drugged family into the rented SUV he had parked two houses down on the quiet street. He then drove out of Malmo, over the modern Oresund Bridge, and into Denmark. In Copenhagen, a private plane waited to bring them to the home base of Operation Anesthesia. It would be the Lerner’s home for the rest of their lives.

It was the end of the road.

Chapter 1

It was the end of the road for Billy Harper, both literally and figuratively. From the literal standpoint, the end of the road was a well-groomed cul-de-sac in New Canaan, Connecticut, with stately mansions staring back at him. The figurative was much more complex and hurtful.

His old high school football coach used to drill into his head that you should never look back because someone might be gaining on you. And whenever Billy glanced into his rear-view mirror, what he always saw gaining on him was his past. But ironically, as he looked through the front windshield at the children playing on the lush lawns, his past was straight ahead, and the pain began to rumble. The figurative.

He gathered his emotions as best he could and drove his 2001 Jeep Cherokee down a dirt driveway, which was hidden between two majestic mansions that anchored the cul-de-sac.

The Cherokee was a lot like him—it wasn’t that old, and still looked pretty good on the outside, but had a lot of hard miles on it and could break down at any moment. He bounced along the strip of gravel, kicking up dust and rocks, and rattling his few remaining possessions that were strewn throughout the vehicle. Billy glanced into the infamous rear-view mirror and saw the cul-de-sac disappear from view.

He arrived at a white picket fence. In the center of the fence was a wrought-iron gate with Bevelyn Farms imprinted on it. He passed through the open gate onto a paved driveway that circled in front of an arch-shaped, red barn, typical of the New England countryside. A large silo stood next to it like its overprotective big brother.

Billy parked in front of his new home, and exited into a sun-drenched afternoon—a record high temperature for the tenth of September. In a dramatic twist from the morning rain showers, the sky now looked like Monet had brush-stroked it with oranges and reds, and the smells of Saturday afternoon barbecues filled the air. It was as if the once-dreary day was given a fresh start. Billy took a deep breath, and then headed toward what he hoped would be his own fresh start.

He passed an 800-series black BMW, confirming that this place might be just a bit out of his price range. He still wasn’t sure why they had rented the cottage to him at such a bargain cost. Just rich people doing some charity work, he guessed.

Chuck Whitcomb answered the door, wearing a Speak Slow I Only Speak Canadian T-shirt and mesh baseball hat. Standing almost six-foot-two, Billy didn’t have to gaze upward to look many people in the eye, but Chuck was at least six-foot-six. He reminded Billy of many he encountered growing up in Johnstown, Pennsylvania. Honest working-class folks who slaved in the local mill all week so that they could spend their Friday night cheering-on Billy Harper, the local hero of the moment. Based on the ritzy neighborhood, Billy had expected someone more resembling his swanky former in-laws.

Chuck greeted Billy affably and led him into the barn, which actually had been converted into an exquisite home. Billy was just as impressed as he was last Monday, on Labor Day, when he came to view the guest cottage the Whitcombs were renting.

Billy followed Chuck into an expansive open area. The interior was dominated by heavy, honey colored timber. Large wood beams shot horizontally across the room, giving it a secure feel. A cathedral ceiling soared up two stories, arching at the top. To his left, a spiral staircase led to a second floor overhang that reminded Billy of a balcony in an old-time movie theater. On his right was an elaborately decorated, but comfortable looking living room area that featured a large fieldstone fireplace.

“Carolyn is upstairs with a little fever and Beth is setting up for the birthday party tomorrow. So it’ll be just you and me,” Chuck said as he pulled Billy toward the kitchen.

Billy nodded hesitantly, still expecting Chuck to come to his senses about renting him the cottage.

The country-style kitchen was an impressive blend of wide-beamed wood flooring and whitewashed wood trim. An adjacent breakfast nook ushered in streams of powerful sunlight through oversized windows, which reflected off a cluster of copper pots and pans that hung over an island stove.

Beth Whitcomb stood at the kitchen sink washing a plastic cereal bowl. She was probably no older than mid-twenties, about ten years Chuck’s junior. Her strawberry blonde hair was cut into a simple bob with box layers, and light freckles dotted her fair skin. She wore a flowered sundress filled with pinks and greens, but while the dress was soft and breezy, her stony demeanor was anything but carefree.

Chuck walked to his wife and hunched downward to give her a mood-changing kiss on the cheek. “How’s my girl?”

She actually smiled. “Do you mean me or Carolyn?”

“I know how amazing you are—how’s she doing?”

“Fever’s down—taking a nap upstairs.”

As Billy observed Chuck and Beth, he thought he’d put the story together since his initial visit last week. Beth was a Boulanger. In fact, she and her sister, Dana—who had set up his meeting with the Whitcombs—were princesses in the Boulanger Kingdom. He figured that Beth married Chuck, the common man, to be her court jester. But Billy knew one day the princess would realize that she preferred a prince. And she wouldn’t be satisfied to just leave, she’d take his most cherished possessions with her—the ones that touch the soul. It was a story Billy was too familiar with. And it wasn’t a good story. As a writer, albeit an unpublished and penniless one, he knew a good story contained suspense. He already knew how this story would end—there was no suspense.

Chuck pulled out two perspiring bottles from the refrigerator, receiving a dirty look from Beth.

“Beer, eh?” he offered in his Canadian twang, and Billy accepted the bottle of Klein’s. Noticing the label, he almost laughed out loud at the irony—he just couldn’t escape from the past.

As he twisted off the top, Billy could feel Beth’s glare on the back of his neck. When they first met last week, her first words to him were, “When I pictured who my sister would send us to look at the cottage, you are exactly what I imagined.”

“What’s that?” Billy had asked.

“The good looking, T-shirt and jeans type. The wavy hair, the charming smile, and oh, Dana loves a cute dimple.”

Billy touched his dimpled chin, briefly impressed with himself, before noticing Chuck’s slumping body language. Billy realized he was about to take a punch-line across the nose.

“But of course there is the other side to Dana’s men,” Beth continued.

“Her men? She’s my agent, not my girlfriend. I think you have the wrong idea.”

Beth rolled her eyes, as if to say she’d seen this movie before. “Dana’s men are always starving artists who end up living off of her like parasites. They also just got out of some complicated relationship, and have a fifty-fifty shot of having a drinking problem.”

It was obvious to Billy that she wouldn’t rent him the cottage at gunpoint, even if he could afford it, which he clearly couldn’t. So he decided he was done being shit on.

“Divorce became official about a year ago. I do have a job at the Shoreline Times here in New Canaan, which Dana got for me, although I don’t have the four thousand a month you’re asking for rent, not even close. And lastly, I don’t have a drinking problem. I happen to like drinking—it’s not a problem!”

At that point it would’ve taken a miracle from above for him to be moving in six days later. And that’s exactly what happened.

A sudden thunder boomed through the air, and cascaded down from the balcony overhang. Billy looked up to witness a small girl barreling down the stairs like a precocious barrel of energy. As she did, she let out an innocent giggle that bounced off the acoustics. She wore a denim dress with butterflies embroidered on it, and her tiny sandals looked as if they’d fly off her feet as she bounced down the stairs at an excited pace.

The first thing Billy noticed was her eyes—two big saucers of hazel. Her brown hair was in double ponytails that jetted from both sides of her head. Her apple cheeks resonated with joy. When she reached the bottom, her eyes locked on Billy and her face scrunched, seemingly in deep thought.

She reminded him of the character Boo from Monsters, Inc. The little girl who accidentally got stuck in the world of monsters. Carolyn Whitcomb wasn’t an animated character, but her demeanor was definitely animated.

“Who are you?” she finally asked, her voice containing a slight muffled lisp. When she opened her mouth, exposing her tongue, Billy understood why.

“I’m Billy, what’s your name?”

She stuck her chest out proudly and stated, “I’m Carolyn Whitcomb, but you can call me Princess.”

There was nothing pretentious about the statement. It actually reminded Billy of an innocence he once knew. Their bond was instant, and the princess would eventually cast the deciding vote as to whether Billy would be offered the cottage. Or at least that’s the way that Chuck portrayed it to him.

It was a decision that still baffled him. Not just because he couldn’t afford the rent, but also because part of his rental agreement was that he would care for Carolyn during the day. By the looks of things, the Whitcombs could afford a team of nannies, but that still wasn’t it. What he found most odd was that they never asked him the basic background questions—the ones about being arrested for a violent crime—that when he would refuse to answer, his silence would’ve convicted him, and ruled him out of any such responsibility.

But now less than a week later, he was preparing to move in.

Thunder once again crackled from above, and like a flash of lightning striking twice, Carolyn fearlessly scampered down the stairs, her voice booming off the acoustics, “Billy—did you come to play with me?”

Chuck impeded his daughter’s dash, swooping her into his arms. “Billy is moving into the cottage today, princess.”

“Can I help?”

“Are you feeling better?”

“Yes.”

“Tell Billy how old you’re going to be tomorrow.”

She flashed the three most inner fingers on her small hand, and then took attendance. Upon discovering she missed one, she manually raised her pinky finger. “I’m gonna be foe.”

Billy smiled to match hers. “Four? And not even one gray hair?”

She laughed. “You’re silly.”

Still holding her in his huge arms, Chuck planted his face into hers. “And not even one wrinkle.”

“That’s cuz I wear sunblock so the ubee rays don’t get me!” she exclaimed, her voice climbing octaves in a scale-like cadence: do-ra-mi-fa-so.

Beth remained the party pooper. She walked to her daughter, all business, and placed the palm of her hand on her forehead. “Fever’s gone,” she announced to Chuck.

He nodded as if it were the expected conclusion.

“Can I help Billy move in, Mom, can I?” Carolyn negotiated.

Beth’s face contorted, as if she were thinking long and hard about it, but eventually gave in. It seemed the princess always got her way in the end.

Carolyn lit up like a Christmas tree. “Then what are we waiting for—I’m not getting any younger!”

Chapter 2

With Carolyn’s birthday party on Sunday and Chuck scheduled to leave for a hunting trip Monday, Saturday was the logical day for Billy to move into the cottage.

Chuck assumed the role of muscle, while Carolyn became the unofficial foreman of the job, ordering the men around like the princess she claimed to be. Beth spent most of her time scurrying around the yard setting up for the party. But she did find time to neurotically check on Carolyn every fifteen minutes.

“Look, Mom—I’m the momback,” Carolyn shouted to her mother as Beth once again approached. Then Carolyn turned her attention back to Billy, who was slowly backing up the Cherokee to the front of the cottage. She started waving her arm like she was directing traffic.

“The momback?” her mother inquired.

“I wave to Billy to tell him if there is enough room to back up and say momback…momback!”

Chuck grinned from ear to ear, which received a stern look from his wife. “I hope you’re watching her,” she warned.

He nodded away his grin.

Carolyn, wearing a backwards baseball cap and a white T-shirt saluting the fictional minor league hockey team, the Charlestown Chiefs, suddenly threw up her hands and yelled, “Stop Billy!”

Not completely trusting the soon-to-be four-year-old, Billy got a second opinion from Chuck, who confirmed his daughter’s diagnosis. Billy threw the truck into park and hopped out. He slapped Carolyn five and she flashed him a toothless grin. It exposed the grisly stitched-tongue that Billy noticed during his initial visit.

Carolyn then moved to her mother, who first inspected her arms, and then under her shirt.

“She’s checking me for the lime,” Carolyn explained to Billy.

The response didn’t clear it up.

“Actually, I’m checking for ticks so she doesn’t get Lyme disease,” Beth clarified, and then checked for a fever by pressing her palm to Carolyn’s forehead.

“Maybe you can put her in a bubble,” Billy remarked snidely.

Carolyn appeared excited about the idea—mentioning her fondness for bubbles, whether it be blowing them or in a bath—but Beth shot him a dirty look and stormed off. He was not off to a great start with his new landlord.

On the next trip, Billy and Chuck moved his mattress and bed frame. Carolyn pleaded to help them move the large items, looking for a promotion from the momback.

“Princess, you carry the small stuff. Billy and I will get the heavy things,” Chuck instructed.

She looked dejected, but remained defiant. “I’m a big girl.”

“I know you are. Carrying the little stuff is a big girl job.”

After a moment of tense reflection, she appeared to accept her fate. She grabbed a pile of folders and manuscripts and marched them into the cottage.

Billy and Chuck had just begun hooking the bed frame together when they heard Carolyn let out an ominous “uh-oh!” They looked up just in time to witness her crashing to the ground, Billy’s folders flying everywhere.

Billy moved quickly to gather his belongings, but Chuck beat him to a glossy photo of an attractive female. Her radiant blonde hair and sparkling smile almost jumped off the page. She stood next to a tuxedoed and youthful looking Billy Harper at a college formal.

Chuck viewed the photo and half sang, half said, “Brenda and Eddie were the popular steady and the king and the queen at the prom, eh?”

Billy wasn’t affected by the picture of his ex-wife, Kelly. It was from Ohio State, almost fifteen years ago. Flustered, he scrambled to secure the other photos—the more recent ones—the ones that reminded him of the things she stole from him. He couldn’t bear to look at those pictures. He shoved them back into the package—back into the rear-view mirror where they belonged.

“Is that your wife?” Chuck asked.

“Ex-wife,” Billy muttered, stashing away the last photo to safety.

Chuck didn’t push it.

“What’s an ex-wife?” Carolyn asked.

“Just grownup stuff,” Chuck told her.

“I’m a big girl,” she announced again. She seemed annoyed that the grownups weren’t catching on to the concept.

Chuck picked her up in his arms and kissed her on her Coppertone smelling cheek. “A big girl would know not to run while she’s carrying stuff.”

“I’m sorry, Daddy.” Her lip quivered as she laid it on thick.

Chuck’s stern look melted like a snowman on the first day of spring. Another victory for the princess.

Chapter 3

In the late afternoon, the hungry movers took a break for lunch. Billy sat with Carolyn at an umbrella-covered table on a wooden roof-porch that was built atop the cottage, while Chuck grilled deer meat from his last hunting trip. He went into great detail about how he defeated the deer in an epic one-on-one battle, leaving out the tiny detail that he possessed a high-powered shotgun and the deer was defenseless. It was reminiscent of when Billy tried to fight the Kleins, his former in-laws.

Chuck described the taste as gamey, which Billy soon learned was another word for pretty disgusting. Losing interest in the food, Billy viewed the extensive grounds of Bevelyn Farms from their perch, and exclaimed with admiration, “This place is amazing.”

Chuck expounded that the main house had been a milking barn for cows. And back when the farm was originally converted to dairy, the cottage was built to be an icehouse to store the milk, which explained its thickly insulated walls and few windows. He went on to mention that when he and Beth moved in, the cottage still had an “ice chute” that jetted from what was now Billy’s loft bedroom. But they had it taken out when Carolyn began using it as a slide.

“The converted barn takes up seven-thousand square feet and uses over a thousand gallons of oil to heat the thing in the winter!” Chuck detailed.

Billy had trouble evoking sympathy for the filthy rich. “Why is it called Bevelyn Farms?”

“Beth’s grandmother, Beverly, was the owner. Years back, she divorced Beth’s grandfather because of,” he performed air-quotes with his hands, “her good friend, Evelyn. They bought the farm with Beverly’s divorce settlement, moved in together, and named it after themselves.”

Billy smiled with surprise. “Really?”

“Brokeback Mountain had nothing on Bevelyn Farms,” he said with a hearty chuckle. “When Beverly died last year, Evelyn decided she couldn’t bear to live here without Beverly, so it was willed to Beth. We couldn’t turn down a chance to raise Carolyn in a place like this.”

“Great Granny’s ‘going-away’ party is in two days,” Carolyn exclaimed.

Billy was confused. “I thought you said she died last year?”

Chuck interjected, “Beverly’s wishes were to have her ashes tossed into the Long Island Sound within forty-eight hours of her death. But Evelyn refused to part with her, and hijacked her to Florida, where she now lives. It took a year of heavy negotiations to get her to finally hand over the urn, so the ceremony is slated for Monday.”

“But you’ll be on your hunting trip.”

Chuck smiled wryly. “Funny how that worked out. But luckily you’ll be here to stand in for me.”

Billy knew beggars couldn’t be choosers, so he didn’t quibble. Instead, he turned his attention to Carolyn. She couldn’t eat solid food, so her lunch consisted of a bowl of barbecue sauce that she washed down with big gulps of strawberry milk. All Billy knew about the tongue injury was that it had something to do with the “incident” in which she was expelled from nursery school, creating the need for someone to watch her in the afternoons.

Neither father nor daughter seemed to want to talk about it, but Billy finally had to ask, “What happened to your tongue?”

“I bit it—they had to sew it back on,” she casually stated.

“You bit off your tongue?”

“I tried to trick the other kids in school that I was Dracula, and pretended I was gonna suck their blood. So I made blood go down my chin. But then everybody got mad.” She shrugged, looking perplexed. “I was just havin’ fun.”

Billy didn’t know what to say. Biting off your tongue is fun? But it did explain why she was no longer welcome in school.

She didn’t seem to want to dwell on the incident, and skillfully changed the subject, “Billy…last night…in my room…a big dragon was there.”

“Wow, that’s scary,” he played along.

“But he didn’t know that fireflies were hiding in there and they got in a big fight!”

The tale continued getting stranger, before Chuck stepped in. “Carolyn—what did your mother and I tell you about fibbing?”

Carolyn sighed. “I’m just not gonna apologize for havin’ a good imagination.”

The men couldn’t help but to laugh. Proud of herself for making a funny, Carolyn showed off her big toothless grin. But the gruesome tongue was still lurking in the shadows.

Chuck explained to Billy that Carolyn believes fireflies fight off dragons, and she makes him help her collect them each night before she goes to bed.

“I’ll bet a girl with such a good imagination likes movies. What’s your favorite movie, Carolyn? I’m guessing Sleeping Beauty or Lion King,” Billy said.

She pointed proudly at her shirt. “Slap Shot!” she shouted, followed by a pretty good imitation of the eccentric, optically challenged Hanson Brothers, who played hockey enforcers in the movie. “Put the foil on, coach.”

“You watch that movie?” Billy asked, surprised. Slap Shot was a 1970s cult-classic about a minor league hockey team called the Charlestown Chiefs, starring Paul Newman. Not exactly age appropriate.

“It’s my favorite. But don’t worry, Billy, I cover my ears when they say the bad words,” she said, putting her tiny hands over her ears, peek-a-boo style.

He smiled. “You play hockey?”

“I play, but I’m not as good as my dad,” she said in her excited do-ra-mi cadence.

“You played professionally?” he asked Chuck

“He was a goony,” Carolyn blurted.

“A goony?”

She put her little dukes up like she was ready to spar a few rounds with Ali.

“Oh, like the enforcer,” Billy caught on. The goon’s job description has always been to protect his teammates, often by use of force. With Chuck’s size, Billy was sure he performed well in the role.

“Eighteen years in the minors and I have the aching joints to prove it,” Chuck added proudly.

Billy was going to mention that he was once the star quarterback for Ohio State University and the MVP of the Rose Bowl, but he doubted Chuck would believe him, and besides, it seemed like a different lifetime. He chose to remain quiet while Chuck quizzed his daughter on the important elements of life.

“What’s icing?”

“When one team hits the puck out of their own zone and it crosses two lines.”

“How many minutes do you get in the penalty box for high sticking?”

She stuck up two fingers like she was giving a peace sign.

“That’s my girl, eh.”

Chapter 4

As they moved the final items, the sun began to sink behind the woodsy surroundings, turning the late afternoon into a Norman Rockwell painting. They first unloaded Billy’s computer stand and modest television. They saved the heavy bookcase for last.

Billy and Chuck were struggling to set up the computer when they heard the crash. Billy was under the computer stand with a flashlight, trying to find the right plug for the USB attachment. He dropped the flashlight and banged his head.

When he got outside, Chuck was already on the scene. There was no way to know why Carolyn tried to pull the bookcase off the back of the Cherokee by herself. There was also no way to know how she did it, but the rope used to secure it to the back of the truck was the probable culprit.

The bookcase rested fiendishly on top of her, only her small head was visible. Blood flowed like Niagara Falls. Most troubling was that there was no scream—no sign of life. Billy stood motionless, staring at the bloody scene in front of him.

Chuck, kneeling by his daughter’s head, turned and shouted, “Billy!”

But Billy remained in a trance. They used to rave back in his quarterbacking days about how he always remained calm under the pressure. “Cool as a cucumber,” was the common term of praise. But right now Billy was cracking under the weight of the pressure like he was the one trapped under the heavy object.

“Billy—c’mon!” Chuck shouted again.

The light suddenly went on and Billy sprung into action, sprinting to the accident scene and helping to lift the bookcase off the little girl.

Carolyn remained in a fetal position, the blood continuing to flow from her left temple, painting her once-white Charlestown Chiefs T-shirt a shade of crimson.

Chuck ripped off his shirt and held it over the gash.

Billy was relieved to see her eyes open. She looked more stunned than anything else. Once it was determined that she was still in one piece, Chuck began the reprimanding. The parenting books might tell you to apply a calm approach, but it wasn’t their daughter who was almost the lead story on the local news.

Once he made his point, he pulled her into his arms. As father and daughter embraced, Billy was drawn by a strange “what’s the big deal?” look on her bloodied face. Billy ran into the cottage and retrieved a wet cloth. He quickly returned and dabbed it on her wound. When he touched the raw cut she didn’t even flinch.

“Are you okay, princess?” Chuck asked her as he inspected the wound.

“I’m better than the bookcase,” she replied, viewing the multiple pieces that were strewn across the lawn like driftwood.

“I thought I told you the heavy stuff was for grownups?”

“But I…”

“No buts, Carolyn, you need to listen to me,” Chuck again turned stern.

“I just wanted to help,” she whimpered. Her face tensed, and then the tears began to flow.

“What do you say to Billy?”

“I’m sorry about the bookcase, Billy,” she sniffled.

“I’m just glad you’re okay,” Billy said and again dabbed her wound. Still no flinch. “Didn’t it hurt?” he asked.

Carolyn looked up at him with a clueless daze, crocodile tears continuing to stream down her face.

Beth arrived in hysterics. She grabbed Carolyn away from Chuck and inspected her head. The gash wasn’t pretty. A vein popped out of Beth’s forehead. “What happened?”

“I broke Billy’s bookcase, but I’m gonna give him mine,” Carolyn said.

Beth glared at the two men. “Where were you two?”

“We were inside and…” Chuck ventured into the rough waters.

“Inside?” she cut him off. “You left a three-year-old alone around heavy objects? Even for men, you two take the cake!”

“I told her to leave the heavy stuff alone,” Chuck helplessly flailed.

Beth looked indignant. “Oh, you told her? Well, that should’ve solved the problem. Have I mentioned that she’s three years old?!”

Carolyn tried to plead her case that she was almost four, but was ignored.

Chuck attempted to make one last case, but received a strong, “I don’t want to hear it.” He wasn’t going to win this battle and wisely retreated.

Beth then turned to Carolyn, and her tone calmed, “Why don’t we go get that cut cleaned up?”

“Can I get a Big Bird Band-Aid?” Carolyn asked with surprising excitement. Her tears dried up like the Sahara.

“We’ll see.”

Beth held the little girl’s hand as they walked into the sunset. Carolyn held the rag over her gash with her free hand.

From a distance, Billy heard Carolyn’s joyful giggle. He couldn’t help thinking that something was off. And not just because she found joy in an accident that would’ve sent most kids to the emergency room. It was the unnaturalness of her reaction. It reminded him of a movie he once saw where an alien accidentally landed on Earth and tried to assimilate itself into society by pretending to be human.

But then Billy remembered it wasn’t an alien who fell to Earth in the movie—it was an angel.

Chapter 5

After a long day of moving furniture in the heat, Chuck suggested Mexican food, while Billy craved anything that would remove the gamey taste from his mouth. Chuck also conceded that there was a good possibility that Beth had locked him out of the house after the “bookcase incident.” So they passed over the New Canaan border into the neighboring city of Norwalk and ended up at a Mexican restaurant/bar called Durazzo’s.

They drove in Chuck’s Chevy Silverado pickup truck, which melded better in the more blue-collar Norwalk, although Chuck warned that Durazzo’s still attracted the New Canaan yuppie crowd on Saturday night. He explained that he wasn’t a fan of the place, but bartended there a couple nights a week and could eat and drink for free. He joked that it still might be too expensive on his budget.

Billy was caught off-guard. “What are you talking about?”

“To make a long story short, we have no money.”

Billy suddenly realized there might be some suspense to this story after all.

Chuck continued, “I don’t want to get into the messy details of how the Boulangers cut Beth out of their family. It took a lot of blood, sweat, and tears to get past, and now Beth is…” He paused, searching for the right word.

“Numb to it,” Billy filled in the blank. He’d become an expert on numbing the pain.

Chuck nodded. “That’s a good way to put it, and I hope she stays numb. But anyway, Beverly and Dana have been the only real family she’s had for as long as I’ve known her. Beverly left us this house, but she liked to live extravagantly, so the estate came with a lot of debt. And I’m not even going to get into what the housing market has done to the value. Dana has helped us out a ton, but we still struggle to survive each month.”

Billy realized there was a lot more to this story, but he of all people wasn’t going to dig into somebody’s past. “But if that’s the case, don’t you need the four grand you could get from renting the cottage?”

“I’m working two jobs. Laying floors during the day and bartending here at night. Beth went back to school and she can’t even take the classes she needs because we can’t afford a babysitter, and Carolyn getting kicked out of school sure didn’t help things. We only live in one part of the house because we can’t afford to heat or air-condition the rest of it. Our cars are in the shop every other week. And if you were wondering, that’s Dana’s BMW parked out front. She loaned it to us last week because the starter went in my truck. Yes, four grand a month would help a lot.”

“Then why even consider me?”

“You were the first person we interviewed who seemed like a real person. I could use the money, but given the choice, I’d choose for Carolyn to grow up around real people.”

“Maybe if my book ever gets published I could pay you back.”

“You do know that Dana has never sold a book, don’t you?” Chuck snickered.

That was news to Billy.

They passed through the crowded bar that featured a mariachi band, before exiting into a patio area. It was practically empty—most people not willing to take-on the record heat. A mister was trying to cool things down, but having little effect. They took a seat at a circular table with a yellow umbrella sponsored by José Cuervo tequila, one of Billy’s favorite numbing agents for the pain.

“She likes you, ya know,” Chuck said.

“Who?”

“Beth. If she didn’t, you wouldn’t be here.”

“She has an interesting way of showing it.” Billy said, eyeing Chuck suspiciously. “You’re telling me that Beth really wanted me to rent the cottage?”

Chuck grinned. “Not buying my ‘you’re the first real person’ story?”

“No offense, but I get the feeling that Beth gets the final word on all issues in the Whitcomb household. If Carolyn is the princess, then she’s the queen.”

“Carolyn and I did fight for you,” Chuck came clean, “but Beth might be the most overprotective parent on the planet—which I love her for—so despite her lip service, she had no plans of ever really hiring a babysitter for Carolyn. Mother Teresa could’ve showed up with references from the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, and she would’ve found fault. So the idea of leaving her daughter with a strange man with a vague past—no offense—would take a miracle to get approved.”

“So who was the miracle-worker working on my behalf?”

“There is one person outside of myself that Beth would trust Carolyn’s life with, and that’s Dana. And after the bookcase debacle, she might be the only one left on that list. Beth might not always approve of her choice in boyfriends, but the only reason you’re here is because Dana went to bat for you, big-time.” Chuck’s face turned rigid. “So don’t you do anything to harm that trust. Understood?”

Billy swallowed hard as he nodded. “So what makes Beth so overprotective of Carolyn?”

Chuck’s face remained deathly serious. “Beth has abandonment issues from her family and sometimes overcompensates with Carolyn.”

“What I’ve learned from my experiences with the rich and fabulous, is that Beth and Carolyn will probably be better off without them.”

Chuck sighed. “I wish it were that simple. You see, Beth wasn’t a blood Boulanger. She was adopted. Then when her adopted mother died, that family turned on her. So she felt abandoned by two families—birth and adopted. She never wants Carolyn to feel that, so she grips a little too hard sometimes.”

Billy was again surprised, but covered it with a smile. “I guess she picked the wrong kid to be overprotective of. Carolyn is fearless. She pulled a bookcase on her head and didn’t even miss a beat. Not to mention, she bit off her tongue to get some laughs from her classmates. Even Ashton Kutcher wouldn’t go that far to pull off a prank.”

Chuck laughed with admiration. “We call her the Boo-Boo Machine. I’m sure you saw the burns on her hands.”

Billy nodded.

“They’re from last Fourth of July when she grabbed the barbecue. But that was nothing compared to the first week we moved in here, last winter, when she did a full sprint into the wall and knocked out her teeth.”

“I noticed some nasty scars on her arms, also.”

“You should’ve seen the suspicious looks we got the last time we brought her to the emergency room.”

“Did it surprise you that she didn’t even scream when she pulled that bookcase on her head?” Billy couldn’t get it out of his head.

“She was more scared than anything. You see it all the time when kids crash their bikes. They seem fine, but then they realize what happened and go into a delayed cry.”

Billy wasn’t buying that one—the bookcase would’ve hurt an elephant—but he played along with a smile, “And they say I’m hardheaded.”

“What can I say, she’s tough as nails. A couple of months ago these older brats in the neighborhood conned her into playing in their sandbox. To make a long story short, they shoved sand into her eyes and mouth. The sand caused an abrasion on her cornea. She never complained, but her vision seemed off, so we brought her to the eye doctor. The doctor was astonished at her pain tolerance for such a deep cut.”

“Sounds like she takes after her dad.”

Chuck sadly shook his head. “Except my wife has succeeded in turning her into a girl. Do you know what she asked for her birthday?”

“She told me—a big girl bike.”

“Besides that.”

“I don’t know, what?”

“A dress and a Barbie doll!”

Billy chuckled. “You’ve definitely lost her.”

“I’m not dead yet, she’s still the best street hockey player in the neighborhood.”

“Speaking of which, is Slap Shot really her favorite movie?”

Chuck’s Hulk-like chest shot out with pride. “There’s not even a close second. She can recite every line.”

“She’s very bright for her age. Maybe that’s why she has trouble in school. I once read that Einstein was so bored with school he became disruptive and got kicked out.”

“She can tell you all the planets in the Milky Way and interesting facts about them at age four. I’m thirty-five and all I know are a few Uranus jokes and that Pluto was a dog. She takes after her mother.”

“You said Beth is going back to school. What’s she studying?”

“Her adopted mother, Mrs. B, was a political science professor at Siena College up near Albany, before the Boulangers moved to Greenwich. And Beth wants to follow in her footsteps. She attended Siena also—at the same time I was playing hockey up there, which is how we met—but had to leave when Carolyn came along and never finished. And like Mrs. B, she’s a political junkie, so don’t bring up the situation in Iran unless you’re ready for a fight.”

“The situation in Iran?”

Chuck looked at Billy as if he were a space alien. “The hostages...like on then news every night. Are you really that out of it?”

Billy shook his head. “I guess I am. The only Iran hostages I ever heard of were from back during the Carter Administration. Are these some sort of retro hostages from the past?”

Chuck’s gaze turned troubled. “Hostage from the past. That’s an interesting way to put it, because the past happens to be holding my wife hostage. She blames it every time Carolyn has an incident in school or gets a fever.”

“I’ve found that if you live in the past it will suck the life out of you,” Billy spoke from experience. “And never look in the rear-view mirror because the past will always be gaining on you.”

Then Billy looked up to see his past walking directly toward them.

Chapter 6

Billy couldn’t take his eyes off of the waitress as she glided toward their table. And not just because she was drop-dead gorgeous. He recognized her from his past, although he’d never met her before.

She was college age, but had a much older aura about her. She wore a black Durazzo’s T-shirt tied in a knot above her mid-drift, exposing flat abs and a gold belly-chain that read Kaylee. In case that didn’t catch your attention, her shorts were Hooters-short, barely covering her tanned legs.

She greeted Chuck by planting a kiss on his cheek, and purred, “How’s my teddy bear?”

Billy cleared his throat. “Uh-um.”

She turned and met Billy’s gawk. Her eyes were the color of trouble.

“So Chuck, when did you start hanging around with George Clooney?” she asked, holding her gaze on Billy.

Chuck made the introductions, “This is our new tenant, Billy Harper. Billy I’d like to introduce you to Kaylee.”

She shook his hand, letting her soft grip linger. “Billy the tenant, I’m Kaylee the waitress. And B-T-W, I meant the younger version from the ER days.”

When the tongue-tied men didn’t respond, she continued, “Can I get you guys something to drink? You look hot.” The double meaning was as see-through as the thin material on her tight shirt. She knew how to get a tip.

“Corona would be great, eh.” Chuck stuttered.

“Make that two,” Billy seconded.

“Two cool drinks for two hot guys, coming up,” she flirted some more, flashed her tip-maker smile, then drifted gracefully toward the mariachi music in the distance.

“I work with her,” Chuck explained, “She’s a…”

“Guilty pleasure?”

“No, she’s…”

“A divorce lawyers dream?”

He shook his head. “She lives down the street from us. Goes to Duke—it’s her last weekend before returning. A little spoiled, but a nice kid.”

“Well, with her…umm…assets, I doubt she has trouble picking up some extra spending money for school.”

“I don’t think she needs the money. Her father is Carl Scroggins.”

“As in Carl ‘Kat’ Scroggins, the music producer?” Billy asked with surprise. “You’re neighbor is Kat Scroggins?”

“Not bad, eh?” Chuck said with a big grin.

“Then what is she doing working in a dingy bar on a Saturday night?”

“She dates the owner, Sal Durazzo. He owns a chain of these places down the east coast and is worth a mint. He’s this wannabe mobster twice her age. In other words, he has the most important element any ultra-spoiled twenty-one-year-old is seeking.”

“Money? Power?”

“No—he really pisses off her father,” he replied with a chuckle.

Billy remembered being the guy who pissed off Kelly’s father. And the more he despised him, the tighter Kelly gripped onto Billy.

Chuck dug into the complimentary chips parked in the center of the table. “So where were we?” he asked, dipping a chip into guacamole and jamming it into his mouth.

“I think you were going to tell me why Beth blames herself for Carolyn’s behavior issues and fevers.”

“No, I think I’m all talked-out about my family. I believe I was about to ask you why you still carry around photos of your ex-wife. Seems a little strange for someone who doesn’t look in the rear-view mirror to avoid the past.”

Billy felt the lump coming on. He reached for a beer that wasn’t there. His voice cracked, “Even if you hide the past away, it’s always lurking.”

Then, like a blonde life raft, Kaylee magically re-appeared, holding Corona bottles with green slices of lime attached to their spouts.

“So I hear you go to Duke,” Billy made mindless conversation, attempting to avoid any discussion of the aftermath of Hurricane Kelly.

“Shhh—don’t tell anyone I’m smart. It’ll ruin my image,” she said playfully. “I leave Monday to go back.”

“According to Billy’s secret photos, he went to Ohio State,” Chuck said with a grin. “I, myself, am a proud graduate of the School of Hard Knocks.”

“That was a really long time ago,” Billy deflected.

“I love older guys,” Kaylee replied with an alluring smile. “Do you like smart girls, Billy?”

“I’m not that old.”

“Well, I’m not that smart,” she said, flirtatiously tapping him on the arm. She then sauntered back to the bar and Billy couldn’t help but watch.

Billy never had a problem attracting the opposite sex. But he was never the aggressor. Problem was, he usually ended up with the most aggressive one, not the best one. Kelly popped into his mind once again.

The cold Corona went down smooth on the hot, sticky night. Billy drank two for every one Chuck consumed. He figured if Chuck even gave a distant hint of being hung-over for his daughter’s birthday, he wouldn’t be able to live with himself. Which would be a moot point anyway, since Beth would kill him.

Chuck then said, “Your fan club is approaching at twelve o’clock, George Clooney.”

Billy looked up to see Kaylee heading back toward them. He wasn’t sure if Chuck was offering encouragement or providing a warning.

“I know women like her. They use all their powers to get a man in a position she wants him at: on his knees and worshipping her.”

“I think you just had a bad experience. Maybe it’s time to let the old memories go and start some new ones, preferably good ones.”

Kaylee plopped the beers on the table, and this time brought one for herself. “It’s totally dead in here tonight. So if you don’t mind, I’m gonna hang out with you studs.”

“Why so dead tonight?” Chuck asked. He then informed Billy that they usually have to turn people away on Saturdays, and the patio was normally standing room only.

She eased into the seat and lit a cigarette. “I think it’s because the married men spend time with their wives and families over Labor Day weekend. Then this weekend they go off on supposed business trips with their girlfriends.”

Billy again recognized Kelly in Kaylee’s comment. The cynical layer of ice beneath the perfect smile.

Then a voice echoed, “Hey good lookin’.”

Billy turned to see a diminutive, pudgy man with three days worth of growth on his face, wearing a Yankees cap. He was worried it was Sal Durazzo, ready to fight for his woman’s honor.

Kaylee turned with excitement, but her face quickly changed to disappointment. “Oh, it’s only you, Hawk.”

“I was talking to Whitcomb,” the portly man said in a gravelly voice, mixed with obnoxious laughter.

Chuck stood, greeting the man with a handshake. “How ya doing, Hawk?”

“I was doing great until I found out that wife of yours scheduled your daughter’s party for tomorrow. Does she not know tomorrow is the opening weekend of the NFL?”

Chuck shrugged. “Beth’s the boss. I just live there.”

“So what’s it going to be, Whitcomb, one of those pretentious let’s top the rich bastard next door parties?”

“Carolyn wanted a princess party, but I think we settled on some nature theme. Monday I go on a hunting trip, and today I helped Billy move in, so I haven’t had much time to think about it.”

It was perfect segue for Billy to introduce himself.

Hawk looked at him like he knew him but couldn’t place him. “Have we met before?”

“I don’t think so.”

Hawk nodded suspiciously, and then introduced himself as New York’s number one radio sports talk show host. He went on to say he was “Whitcomb’s neighbor” and bragged that he owned one of the “big-ass mansions” in the cul-de-sac. Then asked, “So what do you do, Harper?”

Billy didn’t want to go into the novel writing thing, so he mentioned his newspaper column for the Shoreline Times.

Hawk snorted, “I usually clean up after my dog with that rag. Do you actually get paid for that?”

Billy bit his tongue and forced a grin. He held the pose until Hawk mercifully left a few minutes later, taking his mindless conversation with him. But before he did, he wagged his meaty finger in Billy’s direction and said, “I know you from somewhere, Harper, and I’ll figure it out.”

Billy shrugged. He sure hoped not.

Beer flowed into the wee morning hours. Then Kaylee must’ve decided that her victim had been softened enough to make her kill-move. “C’mon, George Clooney, this might be my only opportunity to be on Dancing with the Stars,” she said as she dragged Billy to the empty dance floor on the patio. The bar had emptied to only a few.

“I don’t think my legs work,” Billy protested.

“Don’t worry, I’ll hold you up,” she said.

He looked back for Chuck, only to see him retreating into the sultry night.

“I don’t hear any music,” Billy said, noticing the mariachi players packing up their equipment.

“We’ll make our own.”

She pulled him close. Her smell was intoxicating. Billy noticed her necklace, which spelled out her name in gold. Often people wear a tribute to their god around their neck, and he got the feeling Kaylee Scroggins believed she was to be worshipped.

Billy knew his nightmare would resume the moment the sun rose into the sky Sunday morning. But he still needed the anesthesia to get him through the night.

Like a serpent, her lips touched his, and he felt the numbness once again.

Chapter 7

Dr. Dash Naqui never rested on the Sabbath, always arriving to his medical practice at exactly seven in the morning. His office normally provided him solace, but following a week where his skeletons escaped from his closet and appeared on the national news, it became a fortress to barricade himself behind.

He removed his white lab coat and hung it on the chair behind his large mahogany desk. He loosened his tie, and then began meticulously rubbing his temples, twisting his dark skin. He was a wiry, thin man who looked much younger than his sixty-five years of age, and anybody who ever came in contact with Dr. Naqui would tell you he had the energy of a twenty-five-year-old med student. But this week had drained his energy supply, and added more salt to his salt-and-pepper colored hair. He rubbed his temples harder.

His parents had emigrated from Pakistan to Jersey City, where Dash was born. The name on his birth certificate was Siddique, but his parents began calling him Dash for the way he “dashed” around their one-room apartment with boundless energy, and it stuck. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone called him Siddique.

Dash was also one of the few English words his parents knew, and being first generation American, he bought hook-line-and-sinker into the ideal of the American dream. That being, a great work ethic, combined with a sense of patriotism and sacrifice, a man could rise up and become whatever he chose, no matter if he were born to privilege or what his ethnic background was. Dash Naqui was living proof such a dream existed.

He rotated his swivel chair and peered out from his twelfth floor window at the peaceful Sunday morning in Manhattan. His eyes then drifted down onto Park Place. As a child, his family used to play the board game Monopoly, and he knew that if you landed on Park Place, then you’d arrived. Dash Naqui had definitely made it, establishing himself over the past quarter of a century as one of the world’s leading neurologists.

He was widely recognized as one of the most respected voices on such neurological disorders as Bells Palsy, Epilepsy, and Tourette’s Syndrome. He published books that became bibles on numerous pain disorders and once had a 60 Minutes segment dedicated to him, based on the countless hours of pro bono medical treatment he provided his fellow veterans from Vietnam. But in recent years, he had focused his passion on trying to find a cure for Parkinson’s disease. An insidious ailment that his beloved wife, Claire, had suffered with for the past eight years.

Last week Naqui was in Albany to testify before the New York State Senate, lobbying for a bill to fund stem cell research, including the controversial embryonic stem cell research. Naqui believed this could be the key to finding the cure for Parkinson’s, along with other afflictions. He countered testimony by groups who claimed to fight for something called “Right to Life.” In Naqui’s mind, there was no such thing. Life was not a right, but an honored privilege. And when given such a privilege, he believed a society must be willing to sacrifice life for the greater good. Whether that was in relation to science, battle, or whatever was the next challenge thrown at mankind.

He didn’t get back to his home in Ridgewood, New Jersey, until almost midnight. He barely got a wink of sleep, staying up with Claire to the wee morning hours. She had what many in his profession would flippantly call her “bad days.” They never lived it, so they would never understand. But Naqui was never one to wallow in his own misery, and was back at his lower Manhattan office this morning by his usual seven, seeing his first patient at eight. But as the morning’s events unfolded, his mind was thousands of miles away in Iran.

Three months ago, Iran captured twelve men outside of the central desert city of Yazd. It was the only thing agreed upon as factual. The Iranian government alleged it was a joint mission of the CIA and Israeli intelligence to “invade” Iran and “steal” nuclear secrets. The US and Israel denied the allegations, and counter-claimed that the hostages were civilians captured in neighboring Iraq for the purposes of Iranian propaganda. The US maintained that Iran’s motive was to gain leverage in the on-going nuclear disarmament discussions.

When the hostages refused to talk, and the US wouldn’t budge, they were put on trial. Then this morning, not coincidentally September 11, all of the hostages were publicly executed in the streets of Tehran. The US’s first response was just moments away.

Naqui buzzed Wendy, his long time assistant, and instructed her to hold any calls. Then with a regrettable flip of the remote control, he turned on the flat-screen television that hung on the wall of his office.

On the screen appeared Kerry Rutherford, using the White House as a symbolic prop in the background. The morning sun glistened off the silver hair of the sixty-one-year-old, newly appointed intelligence czar. The position was created in the post-9/11 world to be one point of contact for all intelligence agencies to filter information, hoping to eliminate the bureaucracy and ego that doomed past efforts to stop attacks. His official title is U.S. Director of National Intelligence.

Nothing Rutherford said surprised Naqui. The US condemned the “murder” of the hostages without a fair trial, and strongly denied that the hostages were part of the CIA or the Israeli intelligence service.

Naqui paid more attention to Rutherford’s body language, hoping to pick up a clue as to what really happened. He looked into his eyes and gauged his tone, but learned little.

Naqui wandered to the wall nearest to his desk and studied a few of his framed diplomas—undergrad at Rutgers—medical school at Columbia—too many honorary degrees to count. They were a symbol of his work ethic. His eyes then moved to his Vietnam medals, which were displayed like a museum exhibit behind a glass partition. They represented sacrifice.

He was most proud of his service as a medic in Vietnam. Back then, things were black and white—making a sacrifice for America equaled making a sacrifice for the greater good. That’s why he became involved in Operation Anesthesia all those years ago. But as he looked out his window to the spot where the Towers once proudly stood, on the anniversary of their death, he understood that the world would be forever colored in shades of gray.

No matter how many 9/11s Operation Anesthesia stopped, Naqui knew the one they didn’t stop would be the one that lived in infamy. As he watched the Towers burn on that horrible morning, all he could think was that he had let his country down. But what he didn’t count on was that his country—the one he sacrificed everything for—would turn on him.

He could still feel the brutal beating he received by a mob of “patriots,” their vicious insults actually hurting him more than any blows from their angry fists. It happened just days after the attacks during a house call Naqui made to a wheelchair-bound MS sufferer on the Upper West Side. The hangman jury of his peers didn’t know the lengths Dash Naqui had gone to keep their country safe, nor did they care.

“We just don’t think the climate is right to get a conviction in this type of case,” the DA tossed more salt in his wounds that night, while Claire sat shaking beside his hospital bed. The message was clear—Naqui and his fellow Muslims were no longer considered true Americans.

Naqui noticed his hands were flexed in tight fists, reliving the pain. Just the thought of the attack filled him with a hatred he never knew existed. “Not the right climate,” he grumbled to himself.

Never feeling as unsure as he did at this moment, Naqui glanced back at the television coverage of the nightmarish executions. He swore they were being played out in shades of gray.

The questions swirling in Naqui’s mind were not the questions being asked by the reporters on the news coverage. Unlike the media, his most pressing questions were concerning those not shown in the execution photos.

What happened to them?

Could their connection to each other be a coincidence?

He was startled back to reality by Wendy’s sweet voice over the intercom. “Dr. Naqui, sorry to bother you, I know you requested to be left alone, but there is a Eugene Hasenfus here to see you and he is being insistent.”

Chapter 8

Before Naqui could even calculate the sudden turn of events, a man burst through the door with an arrogant limp. He wore a long-sleeved, khaki-colored safari shirt, un-tucked, hanging loosely over a pair of olive green cargo pants. Sitting atop his head was a leather cowboy hat he might’ve acquired during a raid of Crocodile Dundee’s closet.

He removed the hat, revealing a military crew cut of salt-and-pepper hair. It was about seventy-five percent pepper—the direct opposite of Naqui’s ratio. His pockmarked cheeks and high forehead were a mishmash of orange blisters, the work of the unforgiving sun.

He flashed a cocky grin towards Naqui and said, “What’s up, doc?”

It was as if Naqui was looking at a ghost. “Stipe…you’re…”

“Alive, yes, sorry to disappoint you. Hope you didn’t spend too much on the invitations for my going permanently away party.”

The man’s name wasn’t really Eugene Hasenfus, it was Franklin Stipe. Naqui had worked with him on Operation Anesthesia for the last two decades and despised every moment. He had no attack of sadness when he heard that Stipe likely perished in Iran. As a doctor, and especially during the Vietnam War, he witnessed people die on a daily basis who were more worthy of the privilege of life than Stipe.

But he couldn’t deny that Stipe was a necessary evil in Operation Anesthesia’s success. He was the one who could connect the dots to deliver the ends, no matter what the unflattering means. But it was Stipe’s visions of grandeur that most worried Naqui and the other Anesthesia leaders. They could all picture Stipe gleefully testifying before Congress in his dusted off military uniform, feeding his gluttonous ego, while the rest of them were sent off to federal prison.

The Hasenfus reference related to October 5, 1986, when a US cargo plane was shot down in the southern portion of Nicaragua. Two of the crew members died in the crash, but a third, Eugene Hasenfus, parachuted to what he thought was safety, only to be captured by the Sandinista army. The capture of Hasenfus set in motion an international scandal that would become known as Iran Contra. Naqui knew one reckless move could lead Operation Anesthesia to the same congressional sword, and would constantly remind Stipe that it would only take one Eugene Hasenfus to bring down Anesthesia. So in typical Stipe style, he took on the Hasenfus alias to rub it in their faces.

“So are you going to tell me what really happened?” Naqui spoke in the tone of a school principal, pointing angrily at the television coverage.

“No offense, doc, but I talked to enough of you Ali Babas on the way back from Iran. I’m here for my cocktail.”

Stipe moved gingerly to Naqui’s desk and shoved a pile of papers onto the floor. He took a seat on the corner of the desk and unbuttoned his shirt.

What Naqui saw brought back horrible memories. Stipe’s chest was filled with so many burns and abrasions it looked like he was covered in leeches. Many were infected and puss-filled. They were the injuries of war, reminding Naqui of Vietnam.

Naqui grabbed a long needle from inside his desk drawer. He moved to Stipe, noticing two gunshot wounds in his left shoulder—one appearing to have gone clear out the back—and another right above his chest. Naqui figured the bullet from the chest wound was still lodged, having just missed his heart and lungs by centimeters. He put on a pair of snug rubber gloves and touched around the wound. Stipe jumped in agony.

“I need to remove that bullet,” Naqui said, continuing to inspect the wound.

“Just give me a shot of the good shit and I’ll be able to deal with it.”

“I’m not concerned about the pain—I’m concerned someone will trace the bullet to the events in Iran.”

The two men engaged in a brief stare-down. But in the end, no matter how much distrust and loathing existed between them, Naqui knew they would continue to endure. There was too much invested. The power struggle within Operation Anesthesia would continue with no true winner.

Stipe must’ve thought differently. He pulled out a gun from his cargo pants. “Give me the needle, doc, or maybe I’ll have you join me in the pain. Ever been shot in your little Pakistani balls?”

Naqui shot him with a death stare, knocking the threat away like a fly. The men then glared at each other until Naqui won the mental standoff, and Stipe lowered the gun. He then injected Stipe with a customized “cocktail” that featured Vicodin and Valium, along with other high-powered numbing agents that couldn’t be purchased on the open market.

Stipe’s eyes rolled back in ecstasy. Once regaining his senses, his fluttering eyes gazed up at the television screen. Footage was replaying of the Anesthesia soldiers—or Anesthesiologists, as Naqui affectionately referred to them—being executed. As usual, the news coverage was exploiting the gory images.

“Too bad I don’t have the same pain tolerance. Look at that—they didn’t even feel a thing,” Stipe gleefully stated.

“How many times do I have to tell you not to talk bad of them?”

“It’s what we trained them for—nothing more, nothing less.”

“They deserve respect. They gave their lives for their country.”

Stipe arrogantly sighed. “They were a bunch of freaks who didn’t know any better. Besides, it’s pretty easy sitting here in your swanky Park Place office making judgments.”

Naqui’s fists clenched again, but his demeanor remained cool. “Don’t you question my commitment. The only person you fight for is yourself. I wonder how many of those brave kids had your footprints on their backs, when you tried to save your own ass. Now tell me what happened!”

He didn’t have to ask twice. Stipe loved telling his heroic tales. What they lacked in the truth they usually made up in mythical grandeur. “We found an underground uranium plant just outside the city of Yazd in central Iran, along with an arsenal of biological shit. Another successful mission.”

“No mission where twelve soldiers are killed can be considered successful,” Naqui scoffed.

“One major problem in twenty years and you got buyer’s remorse, doc? Do you know how many 9/11s have been averted because of me?”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

“As we were making our getaway, a sandstorm came out of nowhere and the helicopter went down just after takeoff.” He glanced at his wounds to make his point. “And we went down hard.”

“Is it traceable?”

“It was an Mi-17 Soviet model we purchased on the black market. Was I wrong to use my American Express card?”

“I’m glad you find humor in this,” Naqui admonished. Then he returned to his desk and pulled out a handwritten piece of paper. “This is the manifest from the mission. I’m concerned as to why there are three missing members who weren’t shown in the execution tapes.”

Naqui studied Stipe, who appeared nervous as he spoke, “It was one big fiery mess. It wouldn’t be logical for everybody to have survived the crash.”

“I just find it interesting that everybody else survived the crash.”

“Like I said, it was a flurry of gunshots, sand, and fire. But you know the Iranians—everything’s a negotiation. If the three of them possibly survived, then they’d likely hold them for a future negotiation.”

Naqui put the paper through a noisy shredder. “I also find it quite interesting that the three missing boys are all brothers.”

Stipe had no answer for that one, just a nervous shrug.

Naqui approached his patient, reaching into the wound with small pair of metal tongs. With a forceful tug, he removed the bullet. Even under the influence of the powerful pain cocktail, Stipe let out a scream that likely could be heard in Brooklyn. But he also seemed to be enjoying the primal-ness of the situation. Naqui thought it was the first honest thing to come out of his mouth the whole meeting.

“What a mess,” Naqui mumbled with a sad shake of the head, the bullet wound a metaphor for the entire Iran situation.

The pain actually seemed to invigorate Stipe. He rose off the desk and spoke with excitement, “Speaking of messes, I had a little chat with our Washington contact yesterday. This was too public for him and he indicated he wants out.”

This surprised Naqui. “Really?”

“Don’t worry, doc, I have a plan,” Stipe said with a cocky smirk.

“You always do. Although not usually a very well thought out one.”

“I’ve had discussions with some of the leadership of Al Muttahedah about a possible joint business venture. It could be much more lucrative.”

“The terrorist group?”

"No—my Uncle Al Muttahedah from New Jersey.”

Naqui ignored Stipe’s sarcasm, his thoughts focused on his long journey that began in the jungles of Vietnam. He could understand the feeling of their Washington contact; Naqui wrestled with similar thoughts. But even though he was questioning his once unshakable faith in his country, Naqui wasn’t ready to play for the other team. Not yet, anyway.

“So do you want me to start full negotiations?” Stipe asked eagerly, re-buttoning his shirt.

“No—go to our Washington contact and explain that there is too much invested. Pulling out is not an option.”

Stipe nodded as if it was the expected response, then put on his leather hat and limped toward the door. Just before reaching the door, he pirouetted back toward Naqui and flashed another smug grin.

“One other thing, doc. We made a pickup in Sweden on our way back from Iran. Congratulations on becoming a father once again. They say it never gets old.”

Naqui turned back to the television with a sinking feeling in his stomach. He watched the children he helped raise into courageous young men having their lives unceremoniously stamped out in the streets of Tehran. He couldn’t help but wonder if this next child would end up the same way.

Chapter 9

Billy re-entered the atmosphere Sunday morning like a burning, out of control spaceship. His head rhythmically pounded and his tongue had transformed into sandpaper. He initially had no idea where he was, or if he was even alive, but then he smelled the sweet aroma of Kaylee Scroggins.

He reached his arm over, only to find nothing but soft cotton sheets. His mind sobered, realizing this was probably a good thing, although it wasn’t a unanimous decision with other parts of his anatomy. He reached once more, but again got nothing but air. He then rolled back into his preferable sleeping position—on his right side with arms crossed. He’d almost drifted back into a hazy unconsciousness when he heard the female voice.

“Good morning, sunshine, you were fantastic last night.”

Billy strained his neck, blinking his crusted eyelids. After some brief calculations, he grasped that he was in the loft bedroom of the cottage. When he gained some semblance of focus, he noticed the woman sitting in a chair by his bed.

But it wasn’t Kaylee.

He jumped to a sitting position. “What the hell are you doing in here, Beth?”

The morning sun had latched onto the stern face of Beth Whitcomb. The glare highlighted the freckles around her nose, and made her look even younger than her twenty-five years.

“Expecting someone else?” she asked in a calm, but accusatory voice.

“You ever hear of breaking and entering?”

“I heard noises in here last night and I was concerned about your safety. And by the way, you’re living on my property.”

“Where is…”

“That bimbo you brought here last night? She left fifty bucks for you on the dresser. I would’ve thought you could get more.”

“Perhaps you should try it sometime. Maybe you’d loosen up a little. Get rid of those frown marks on your face.”

She forced a condescending laugh. “Oh, so did last night cure your pain, Mr. Happy?”

“You’re a pain in my ass, so no. Where’s Kaylee?”

“We came to an agreement. She would get off my property and I wouldn’t tell her father she was boinking our pool boy. That might get her suspended from his payroll. It was amazing how fast she ran out of here.”

Billy stood in all his glory. He purposefully took his sweet time in putting on a pair of shorts, simply because he knew it would annoy Beth. So far, he hadn’t found that to be much of a challenge. “I don’t remember anything in our agreement about me turning into a monk. Nobody held a gun to your head to let me live here.”

Beth reached down and picked up one of the many empty beer bottles littering the loft. She had her pick of many. She remained calm, which worried him. “I don’t know the exact source of your pain, but I can guarantee you the answer is not in the bottom of one of these bottles.”

“I’m a writer, I like an occasional cocktail. So what? So did Fitzgerald and Hemingway.”

“One who drank himself insane and the other put a gun into his mouth and turned himself into a dead writer.” She sighed deeply and said to nobody in particular, “I can’t believe I allowed this suicidal man around my daughter. God help me.”

Billy’s job for the Shoreline Times didn’t begin until Monday, but he felt he was onto something and put his reporter hat on. “Sounds like you’re talking from experience. What pain were you trying to numb with the bottle, Beth?

Beth’s face bristled, her calm suddenly swept out to sea. “This is not about me. This is about you and your self-destructive behavior, and how it affects my daughter.”

“If it was about being abandoned by your family, I hope you’ve figured out by now that it’s not worth it. Just because your family messed you up, doesn’t mean you’re to blame because Carolyn got kicked out of school. I happen to be an expert on shitty families—birth and married into.”

“My daughter is a sick little girl. Not only does she have constant fevers that the doctors can’t diagnose, but now she’s displaying mental instability and harming herself.”

“Mental instability? C’mon, Beth, the only thing you should be blaming yourself for is what a great kid she is. She pulled a practical joke—she’s a kid—don’t go handing down your straightjacket just yet.”

Beth stood, frozen like a statue. Just like Carolyn did when she didn’t want to deal with something—a handed down trait.

“And as far as the fevers, I’m sure there are plenty of parents with a truly sick kid who would love to have a child as healthy as Carolyn. Chuck told me he can’t even remember her getting a stomachache, and she didn’t even cry or complain when she cut her eye.”

Beth let down her guard. “I drank when I was pregnant with her. Are you happy?”

“So?”

“Haven’t you ever seen the studies about what that can do to your child?”

“Everybody’s different. My great-grandfather smoked three packs a day his whole life and lived to be ninety-six. I went to high school with a guy who was a world class triathlete who never ate a cheeseburger, and he dropped dead of a heart attack at twenty-six.”

Beth wasn’t listening. “I shouldn’t have. Chuck was always on the road playing hockey and I felt abandoned. I know that’s no excuse, but I was a stupid twenty-year-old who was alone, and probably too young and mixed up to handle the responsibility of being pregnant.”

“Maybe you should stop being so self-involved. There are a lot of kids whose parents did stupid things and they turned out fine. The only thing you could’ve passed onto her is being a total bitch, and Carolyn seems to have avoided that trait.”

Beth actually released a quick laugh. It was the equivalent of getting one of those Buckingham Palace guards in the big hats to crack a smile. Billy was drawn to her laughter. It reminded him of Carolyn’s giggle. He thought it was too bad she didn’t realize that she passed joyful laughs to Carolyn and not fevers.

Still drawn to the laughter, Billy inspected Beth. She wore a pair of denim overalls over a T-shirt. He remembered the theme of the party was something to do with nature. She wore little makeup on her face, but Billy got the impression Plain Jane could turn into an elegant beauty if the situation called for it. His eyes then wandered to her bare arms, and she squirmed.

For the first time he noticed the scars.

Chapter 10

They were similar to the scars on Carolyn’s arms.

And Billy discerned that mother and daughter’s scars came from the same dark place. They were the work of self-mutilation.

“That’s what you blame yourself for. You think because you cut yourself, she did that to her tongue.”

Beth tried to hide her arms, but there was no place to put them. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Did Carolyn ever see you cut yourself?”

“Of course not.”

“Then I don’t know what you’re worried about.”

Beth sat back down and stared blankly across the loft. “I felt pain and hurt myself in a cry for help. Carolyn also harms herself. You do the math.”

“The only thing that girl knows is love. That’s your legacy to her. And as far as pain…” he laughed to himself, “She dropped a bookcase on her head and didn’t even flinch. I’m not sure she knows what pain is.”

“The fact is, my self-destructive behavior, whether intentional or not, has done damage to my daughter.” She peered at the stream of empty beer bottles. “I just can’t have any more self-destructive behavior around her.”

“Are you throwing me out?”

Beth remained silent, seemingly mulling it over.

“Are you?” his voice elevated.

Beth picked one of the bottles and repeated her mantra, “This doesn’t cure pain. In fact, after a while it doesn’t even numb it anymore.”

Billy stared at the suddenly vulnerable woman and surprisingly felt a bond with her—a bond of pain. “So how did you heal it?”

She fidgeted in her seat. “Numbing it didn’t work and hurting myself didn’t work. Then the Healing Angel of Pain arrived to save me.”

“The Healing Angel of Pain?”

“When Carolyn was eight-months-old, well before we could expect her to talk; I was changing her on a table in our tiny apartment up in Albany. Chuck was away and there were no witnesses, so I can’t prove it. But I sneezed and Carolyn looked up at me with those big hazel eyes of hers and said as clear as day, ‘God bless you, Mommy.’ She never spoke again for a long time, but the message was clear: God did bless me. He sent Carolyn to heal my pain.”

“Was there a virgin birth involved also?”

“You don’t believe me?”

“Will it affect whether you throw me out or not?”

“I will do anything it takes to protect my daughter.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

Beth calmly reached beside her chair and picked a plastic three-ring binder that Billy recognized. She opened it up on her lap, acting as if Billy wasn’t there. She slowly flipped pages, causing Billy to fume.

“I was reading through one of your manuscripts while I was waiting for you to wake. Dana told me you wrote this great political thriller. So I was surprised you also write children’s books.”

Billy lunged at her, snapping at the manuscript, but Beth pulled it back toward her chest and cradled her arms around it.

“Give me that! It’s none of your business!”

“Writers are always so temperamental,” she teased. “I just wanted to compliment you. I loved it—The Adventures of Peanut Butter & Jelly—Carolyn would love it also. Do you do the illustrations yourself?”

The Adventures of Peanut Butter & Jelly is the story of two five-year-old girls who would be confronted by a life issue—the first story was about dealing with a bully—then would solve the problem in adorably creative ways, always ending in a life lesson. The two girls were twins. Jelly was the extroverted protector of the sweet and shy Peanut Butter. The illustrations were drawn to the scale of how a child would see the world—oversized buildings, cars, and adults. At the end of each story, the girls would come together with satisfaction and repeat their mantra, “Always stick together.”

“It’s a hobby of mine—now give it back!” Billy made another fruitless attempt to grab the manuscript. “Just because your hobby is to cut yourself doesn’t mean I’m going to steal your knife set.”

Beth continued to casually flip through the pages. “You know what my theory is, Billy?”

“I’ll leave if you want, but I don’t have to take this shit!”

“Dana told me a lot of the great writers she’s met are filled with pain. They channel it through the characters and live vicariously through them. It’s like creating life. I think you created Peanut Butter and Jelly to be your healing angels of pain.”

Billy began walking around the room gathering his belongings. “I guess you’ve gone back to drinking.”

“Truth hurts, huh? Nobody knows that better than I do.”

Billy pounced at her, this time wrestling away the manuscript. He shoved it in a duffel bag and exclaimed, “I’ll be out of here, and out of your life, in five minutes!”

“I really think Carolyn would like Peanut Butter & Jelly. She’s had trouble with a couple neighborhood bullies; I think she would take great solace in your stories.”

Billy ignored her, continuing to shove items into his bag.

“Not only would she like it, but I think she would really like for you to read it to her. My angel adores you, Billy Harper, and she’s never been wrong about anyone before.”

Billy stopped in his tracks, confused. “So you’re not kicking me out?”

“You can stay, but on two conditions. One, the drinking stops. And second…”

Beth reached under the chair and pulled out what looked like a reddish-orange rug, or perhaps a fur coat for a giant. She tossed it to Billy.

She addressed his confusion, “It’s an Elmo costume. The guy we hired just cancelled on me. You’ve been hired.”

He watched Beth descend the stairs of the loft and maneuver through a sea of unpacked boxes toward the front door, shouting instructions, “The party begins at noon. You need to be under the tent by eleven-thirty for preparation. It’s up to you.”

The door slammed.

Chapter 11

With Beth’s stinging words planted like a chip in his brain, Billy found a half-eaten box of cereal and ventured up a steep set of stairs to the deck atop the cottage. The roof-deck was originally built because it was the coolest place to gather on summer days prior to the invention of air conditioning, back when the cottage was used to store blocks of ice. But there was no need for cooling this day.

For the fourth birthday party of Princess Carolyn Whitcomb of New Canaan, the temperature fell to the high sixties and a cool breeze introduced the first hint of autumn. It was a good thing, Billy figured, because the Elmo costume was going to be hot.

The dry cereal mixed with his sandpaper tongue was a bad combination, so he returned to the cottage seeking something to lubricate the cereal. All he found was one bottle of beer remaining from last night, along with Carolyn’s strawberry milk, leftover from yesterday’s lunch. He thought about pouring the beer over his cereal, college style. But Beth was right; the numbing effect of alcohol had a short shelf life, and for Billy, it had already run its course. So he grabbed the bottle of strawberry milk, thinking, I could use some help from the Healing Angel of Pain.

He returned to the deck and looked out over the extensive grounds. The morning was calm, but would soon be infiltrated by a small army of four-year-olds. He noticed Beth under the tent making last minute alterations. He couldn’t shake her words. I don’t know the exact cause of your pain. She might not have known, but he was well aware of its source and origin.

She walked into his English lit class at Ohio State. It was his major, while she attended because it was a required course. Billy was supposed to be feeling like the BMOC, since he was the highly recruited quarterback phenom from Johnstown, PA. The list of great quarterbacks originating from Western Pennsylvania read like a who’s who of legends—Marino, Montana, and Namath, to name a few—and he was expected to reach the same rarified air. But he struggled with the adjustment to college life. He went from being the big fish in the small pond, to just another quarterback on the depth chart at a school with fifty thousand nameless students. Going home was no cure, either. He wasn’t looked upon favorably in Johnstown after bypassing the local schools to cross the border into Ohio. And his parents were as big of a disaster as ever. He was homesick for the home he never had.

Kelly Klein was the striking daughter of Gordon Klein, the beer billionaire, whose Pittsburgh brewery helped keep the local economy chugging. Kelly’s reason for attending Ohio State was simple: she didn’t have a choice. Her father was a proud alum who happened to be the school’s biggest donor. Even with Billy’s football exploits, the idea of dating the likes of Kelly Klein was too far-fetched to grasp at the time.

That’s why he was surprised, maybe shocked, when she plopped down next to him in class, and he actually noticed a tinge of nervousness in her voice when she asked, “You’re Billy Harper, aren’t you?” Then she seemed to become unhinged by nerves, and stammered, “Oh my God, of course you are. Can I be any more pathetic?”

She informed him that she’d once met him at a scholar/athlete dinner funded by her father, at which Billy was honored. This was news to Billy. He figured he would have remembered meeting her...like for the rest of his life. When she revealed a high school crush on him that included secretly attending all his games, he almost slid off his chair onto the classroom floor.

He was mesmerized by her tantalizing eyes. The short plaid skirt she wore didn’t hurt either. But he didn’t see the hardened inside until he was already trapped in her web. Billy realized now that their relationship was a calculated move on her part. She bought a stock low, betting on its high ceiling.

The stock rose up the charts later that fall, when due to an injury, Billy Harper became the starting quarterback. He led a comeback against Michigan that was still talked about fifteen years later, and followed that up by winning the Rose Bowl MVP in a romp of USC. A Sports Illustrated cover followed, and agents lined up to help him spend the inevitable millions he would get in the NFL. Suddenly he was the big time fish in the big time pond with the big time girlfriend.

But Billy felt like a fraud. Football was just a means to an end for him. He wanted to be the next John Updike, not the next John Elway, but his football scholarship was his way to escape a life of working in the mill like his father. Ohio State didn’t share his passion for writing and academics. Before his sophomore year, they asked him in a wink-wink polite way to cut back on his class load. When Billy refused, they demanded. When that didn’t work, they threatened. Billy then turned it back on them—he quit.

It turned into a national hot-button issue. Billy looked like the symbol of academic integrity in an arena where the college part was too often missing in college football. Ohio State looked like the Evil Empire that preferred winning football games to education. Kelly clung closer, despite her father forbidding her to see him. Ohio State eventually backed down.

Billy returned to the field with much fanfare, along with his heavy class load. But in the second game of the year he tore his throwing shoulder so badly it needed three surgeries to fix it. He went through the vigorous rehab program to return to the field, but knew he’d never have the arm to ever be the starter again. So he gladly finished out his career under the radar as the fourth string quarterback, keeping his scholarship. People would tilt their heads when they spoke about it, as if he suffered some sort of tragedy. But he was at peace, as football was finally where it had always been for him anyway—in the rear-view mirror.

Looking back, he was always surprised Kelly stuck with him after the shoulder injury crashed his stock. At the time, he was convinced it was out of love and loyalty. They married six months after graduation on the lavish Klein estate in a haughty suburb of Pittsburgh, in spite of her father’s threats.

Billy agreed to join the family business. He would do anything to make Kelly happy, including putting his dreams on hold for her. His job title was Director of Public Relations, but to this day he still couldn’t articulate exactly what he did. They attended social functions, took expensive vacations, and led the expected life of a Klein. He thought things were fine. Every married couple has their problems and of course it can’t always be hot and heavy.

But he now saw how the many small cracks were pieces of a bigger fault line. The biggest sign was that his neurotically image-conscience wife didn’t even put up a fight when he told her he planned to leave his job at Klein’s Beer to pursue the writing career he had put off for her. A job suited for the court jester, and certainly not worthy of a prince in the Klein Kingdom.

In return, he couldn’t protest when she went to work for the campaign of Senator Oliver LaRoche. It was the first thing in as long as he could remember that she seemed excited about. He wondered whether, when she met LaRoche, she opened with the line, “You’re Senator LaRoche, aren’t you? Oh my God, of course you are. Can I be more pathetic?”

Billy could rationalize losing Kelly to LaRoche, a man who ran his campaign under the slogan of “Family Values,” which was too laughable to even laugh about. He was a blue chip stock. But it’s the other part of the story that ripped his insides out. The part where his soul was taken from him. The part that sometimes made him wonder if he should’ve pulled that trigger. He didn’t want to think about that part anymore, so he forced the thoughts from his mind.

So once again Billy Harper would try to ease the pain by vicariously living through a fictional character. He put on his Elmo suit and headed for Carolyn’s party.

Chapter 12

Billy moved toward the large party tent. The day remained cool, but the heat was dizzying inside the heavy Elmo costume, and he hadn’t even applied the head yet.

According to Chuck, the party was going to be modest compared to many of the over-the-top shindigs in their neighborhood, but would still be extravagant enough so the Whitcombs wouldn’t be sent to the social leper colony.

The theme was natural science and was coordinated with the New Canaan Nature Center. Carolyn initially wanted a princess party, but Chuck nixed it. Then she negotiated a hockey party, which gained Dad’s support, but was vetoed by Mom. Aunt Dana came up with the compromise plan of natural science, and since she was paying for it, natural science it was.

When Billy arrived at the tent, he was met by his towering yellow partner in crime—Big Bird. The beak came off, revealing Chuck.

“We’re really in the dog house, aren’t we, eh?” he said with a grin.

“Tell me about it,” Billy said, itching his body like he had a bad case of poison ivy.

“You make any good new memories last night?” Chuck asked, his grin turning sly.

“Just re-living bad ones,” Billy popped Chuck’s enthusiasm balloon.

Under the tent, cafeteria-style tables were waiting for the children, a triangular birthday hat marking each place. The rest of the essentials were all there—cups, plates, napkins, and candles—all had an animal theme.

As noon approached, boatloads of children began arriving with their pageant parents. Many attempted to dress in theme. Some wore cowboy hats, some wore safari outfits, while others wore science lab coats. It appeared the natural science theme had caused confusion. Like high school, they mingled in cliques. As did the parents.

The big adult topic of discussion was the execution of the Iranian hostages, but it didn’t seem to dampen anyone’s mood. Chuck began to point out the rich and the richer to Billy. He told Billy of one party last summer where the family set up amusement rides, including a roller coaster in their backyard. Another hired a famous pop star to perform.

The highlight of the party was a live animal show, where professionals from the nature center showed off unique birds, fuzzy mammals, and scaly reptiles. Carolyn almost started a riot when, upon viewing a particularly unattractive lizard, she shouted, “Dragon!” Like shouting fire in a theater, the four-year-olds scattered in panic. Eventually order was restored, and the live animal show continued for about an hour. A scavenger hunt killed another hour.

The party culminated with a barbecue under the big tent. The princess—wearing what she termed her “birthday dress” that she wore with sneakers and a fashionable bandage on her temple—then energetically opened an endless stream of gifts.

Billy momentarily looked away from the sadistic shredding of wrapping paper and noticed an over-dressed, leggy brunette prancing toward the party like she paid for it. Actually, she did. The long curls bouncing off her shoulders, along with her breezy attitude, made her seem younger than her thirty-five years. Her Manhattan-chic look included a stylish skirt, heels, and expensive Louis Vuitton handbag. Behind her, Dana dragged a shiny red bicycle with a large ribbon on it.

Billy met her halfway. She greeted him with, “There’s nothing hotter than a man in an Elmo costume.”

“Thanks for finding me a place I could afford,” he shot back with a playful grin.

“When Ain’t No Senator’s Daughter publishes, then this place will be referred to as your guest house,” Dana replied with her trademark enthusiasm. “And when the movie rights sell, then you’ll own a castle like that woman who wrote Harry Potter!”

“I thought the writer was supposed to be the out there one and the agent was the realist with the business head?”

“Why lower expectations? It’s going to be huge. A couple of publishers have already read it. They loved it.”

“Is it true you’ve never sold a book?”

“Don’t listen to the haters, Billy, it only takes one.”

“So that’s a no?”

“I never represented you before. No matter how good of an agent I am, I needed talent to sell. Now I got the talent.”

An off-key chorus of “Happy Birthday” in the distance directed Billy’s attention back toward the party. Beth stood to the side and took pictures of Carolyn, who hammed it up for the camera.

“So how are you and Beth getting along?” Dana asked, holding back a smile as if it were a sneeze.

“How could anyone not get along with Beth? She’s so easygoing. It’s been nothing but a pleasure,” he deadpanned.

“What do you expect from twins? We’re both twenty-five, you know.”

“Are you also anal, neurotic, generally uptight, and possibly insane?”

“No, just twenty-five,” Dana said with an easy laugh, but her look then turned serious. “But do you know why she’s like that?”

“I’ve heard bits and pieces. She’s adopted, acquired some nasty abandonment issues, and then got dumped by the Boulangers.”

“She doesn’t just have abandonment issues, Billy,” Dana said. A wind picked up and she pushed her long locks out of her face. “She is the Abandoned Child.”

Chapter 13

Dana moved in like she was going to tell him a secret, even though nobody was within fifty yards of them.

“She wasn’t adopted through a traditional agency. My mother was picking up my father at the Greenwich train station on Christmas Day, almost twenty-one years ago. But what she found was a four-year-old girl wandering aimlessly along the train platform and crying.”

Billy gazed at the party in the distance. If what Dana said was true, then Beth was the same age as Carolyn when she was abandoned.

“My parents waited with Beth for her parents or guardian to show,” Dana continued. “Hours went by—nothing. So they brought her home. I was a freshman in high school at the time, and my friends and I went around Greenwich putting up flyers. Hours turned into days, and by the time we figured out nobody was coming for her, Mom and I had fallen in love with her. Everybody in the family was against keeping her, but my father could never say no to me, I was his little princess.”

Billy wasn’t surprised people like the Boulangers didn’t have to go through the proper channels to adopt the girl. He saw it firsthand with the Kleins, who never went through systems or waited in lines. But he remained skeptical of the story. “These people just ditched their kid at the train station and there were no witnesses?”

“None that we found. Beth was in therapy and hypnosis for years. For the most part, she could recall general emotions she felt, but not specifics like names or places. The majority opinion is the experience was so traumatic that she displaced the memories to a deep place where they could never be retrieved.

“The only tangible memories she had were that she came from ‘the place with the big buildings,’ which we confirmed when we found a train ticket in her pocket from Grand Central in New York. And the other was Nathan.”

“Nathan?”

“She claimed to have a brother named Nathan, who Beth described as having some sort of disfigurement. She remembers the other children mockingly calling him E.T. after the alien in the popular movie of the time. She thought their trip to New York had something to do with going to see a doctor for Nathan.”

“How many doctors could have treated a disfigured child named Nathan around Christmas time? Did you check every doctor in New York?”

The exhausted look on Dana’s face said this was not a new line of questioning. “Of course we did, and found nothing. The consensus of those with the fancy degrees was that Nathan was an imaginary friend that Beth made up to deal with the trauma. That she created his disfigurement and lack of acceptance, to play out the parallels of her actual existence. In other words, they didn’t believe there was a doctor.”

A great imagination, just like her daughter. I’m not gonna apologize for having a great imagination. On the surface it made sense. Imaginary friends were a common way for children to escape and reveal inner thoughts. Billy had his own imaginary friend as a child. But he could tell Dana wasn’t buying it.

“Even if Nathan is a figment of her imagination, which I doubt,” she said, “her recollection of the emotions from that day were too vivid, especially the way she talked about the scared look on her parents’ faces. A child always remembers the first time they see their parents truly scared.”

“Yet she doesn’t remember anything her parents said to her? No names, no description, no mention of where they were sending her? Just that they were scared?” It was still a little hard for Billy to believe.

Dana sighed. “Pretty much, except I guess there was some obscure law back then that a child had to be five-years-old to ride the train without supervision, because the only thing she remembered her mother telling her when she put her on that train was that she was four years old, but if anyone on the train asks, to tell them she is five.”

The recollection seemed to hit Dana like a tractor-trailer, her words now struggling to maneuver past the suddenly rugged terrain in the back of her throat. “That’s the only way we knew she was four years old. We created a birthday for her on Valentine’s Day because she brought us so much love. What kind of mother could have done such a thing to her child?”

“I often wished for a train that would take me away from my family. But in this case, the rich family rescued the abandoned girl. Sounds like a great rags to riches story. So how did it go so wrong?”

“My mom, who Beth called Mrs. B, would do anything for her. My father was always at the office and my brothers were off spreading their sense of entitlement. So it was just the three of us during my high school years. The Three Musketeers.

“My freshman year at Boston College, Beth and Mom were playing in the park—one of their favorite games was for Beth and Mom to chase each other’s shadows. They would run around for hours like school children.”

Dana’s face sunk. It was strange to see the normally carefree woman so stricken with angst. Billy put his red Elmo arm around her. It felt unwanted and awkward.

“I always told her to slow down—she wasn’t a spring chicken anymore,” her voice trembled. “I got the call at school from one of my brothers. He was so cold when he delivered the news of her heart attack. He actually told me I shouldn’t come home until the funeral so that I could concentrate on my midterms.” A tear rolled down her perfectly made-up cheek and she angrily wiped it away, as if she refused to admit the past still got to her.

“Beth was lucky she ran into Mrs. B at the train station. She could’ve ended up with some lunatic,” Billy tried to console.

“Trust me, after my mother died, Beth ended up with a whole bunch of lunatics. I was off in college and my father remarried some plastic bimbo who couldn’t wait to get rid of her. They blamed Beth for everything, including my mother’s death. Beth did what any kid would do, she rebelled. She was only eight when Mom died, and by the time she got to high school she was a mess—the nose ring, purple hair, you name it. If it even resembled rebellion she would do it.”

Billy couldn’t visualize the ultra-conservative woman with purple hair. He viewed Beth in the distance and noticed she was actually smiling. She was snapping photos of a pack of energetic four-year-olds, who were hamming it up for the camera like a bunch of red carpet divas.

Dana fought back tears, contrasting from the festive party in the distance. “The rebellion continued to escalate and that’s when the self-mutilation started. My father tried to put her into an asylum. If it weren’t for me talking him out of it, she might be in some sanitarium wearing a straightjacket. Then ironically, my father had a stroke. We were forced to put him in a nursing home, which became the perfect opportunity for the others to cut Beth out of the family. Beverly and I paid for her college. But the drinking got bad. Thank God Chuck came along…”

As Dana’s voice trailed off, Billy noticed Chuck working the crowd in his Big Bird suit. Beth was at his side, giving off the appearance of contented motherhood. “She’s no barrel of laughs, but she seems like she got it together,” Billy commented.

“For the most part she has,” Dana said, “but the past is always lurking under the surface. I recently caught her searching for her birth parents. She said it was to learn her medical history for Carolyn’s sake, in case her fevers were related to what her brother had. But I know it’s about her making peace with the abandonment.”

Billy knew all too well about trying to make peace with the past. And when it came to a separation of a parent and child, he doubted such a thing was possible.

Chapter 14

Billy persuaded Dana to rejoin the party. Children’s laughter could be one of the world’s great medicines and he suspected Dana could use some.

As if using radar, Carolyn spotted their approach and made a mad dash toward them. “Aunt Dana! Aunt Dana!”

Dana picked up the little girl. “How is my beautiful niece?”

“I’m foe!”

“You’re almost as old as me.”

“How old are you, Aunt Dana?”

Her breezy laugh returned. “I’m forever twenty-nine.”

Carolyn looked at her with wonderment. “Wow, twenty-nine is really old.”

“I used to think so,” Dana said, her tears in the rear-view mirror. “So are you going to come visit me soon?”

“Will I get to ride the train?”

“That’s the best part,” Dana said cheerfully, before turning serious. “Let me see that tongue, sweetie.”

Carolyn proudly stuck it out, exposing the jagged black stitches. Dana cringed, but forced a comforting look. “Why did you do that?”

Carolyn was smart and likely realized the “having fun” answer led to further inquiry. She shrugged with contrived sadness, and replied, “It wasn’t my smartest move.”

“No it wasn’t, sweetie, no it wasn’t,” Dana said as she set the girl down.

Carolyn then spotted the bike and began hopping up and down like she had to go the bathroom “Is that for me?”

“It sure is.”

Her mouth dropped open, forming an O, and her big saucer eyes expanded. “That’s a big girl bike!”

“A big girl bike for a big girl!”

Beth appeared out of nowhere, approaching her older sister. They seemed like they were backwards. Beth’s motherly aura made her seem like the thirty-five-year-old, while the aging-like-a-fine-wine Dana could’ve passed for twenty-five.

They embraced. “Thank you so much for helping us with the party. She loved it,” Beth said, her eyes welling with tears.

“Hey, it saved me a trip to Chuck E. Cheese,” Dana deflected.

“I don’t know how we can ever re-pay you. This meant so much to Carolyn.”

They hugged again. “You know I’d do anything for her—I love that kid.”

“But you’ve done so much beyond…”

Dana cut her off. “I can only buy so many pairs of shoes.”

As usual, they were heeled, leather, and expensive. Beth’s work boots were full of mud from the scavenger hunt. The contrast was as sharp as a blade.

“Mom—Aunt Dana got me a big girl bike,” Carolyn exploded.

“I know. What do you say, Carolyn?”

“I say let’s ride bikes!”

Beth’s head tilted in disappointment. Carolyn picked up on the error of her ways. “I say thank you, Aunt Dana?”

“Much better,” her mother said.

“So are you having fun at your party?” Dana asked the girl.

“Oh my gosh, we…” She thrust into a long tangent about animals, dragons, scavenger hunts, and strawberry milk. Then her cute cheeks drooped. “I just wish my dad was here.”

Moving behind her, still wearing the Big Bird costume, sans the head, Chuck swooped his daughter into his yellow-feathered arms.

The smile instantly returned to her face. “Daddy—you came!” She then viewed him up and down with a perplexed look. “You are wearing Big Bird’s clothes, you silly.”

As the party began to dwindle, they were approached by a portly man flanked by his equally portly kid. It took Billy a moment to recognize him; the night before was a little hazy. But then he placed him as the loud sports talk radio guy named Hawk.

Hawk hit Billy on the arm like they were long lost friends. “A different woman every time I see you, Harper.”

Billy smiled awkwardly.

“Hey, if this is your wife then I’m just kidding,” he said in Dana’s direction, laughing his obnoxious laugh.

Dana grinned sheepishly. “I’m not his wife or girlfriend, but I’m very interested in Billy’s other women.”

“Let’s just say I saw him at this Mexican joint last night and he likes the hot and spicy, and I ain’t talking about salsa, if you know what I mean.”

Dana’s brow crinkled. “You do know your child is standing right there, right?”

Hawk was oblivious. “Oh, I should have introduced you to my boy, Little Hawk. He’s as pissed as his old man that he’s missing the first week of the NFL season to look at some friggin animals.”

Suddenly Hawk began staring down Billy.

Billy felt uncomfortable. “What—you’ve never seen a grown man in an Elmo costume?”

“I swear I know you from somewhere. Harper,” he snapped his meaty fingers as if it was helping him to think. “Billy Harper, where do I know that name?”

“As far as I know, we met for the first time last night.”

He kept staring at Billy and then something clicked. “I knew it! The Amish Rifle—Ohio State—the comeback against Michigan—Rose Bowl MVP—quit like a little sissy.”

“My dad knows everything about sports,” Little Hawk said as he pulled candy from his goody bag and stuffed a handful into his mouth.

“That was a long time ago,” Billy said.

“The Amish Rifle?” Dana inquired with smiling interest.

“It’s a long story,” Billy answered.

“Lucky for you, sweetheart, Mr. Sports is here to explain it for you.”

“My dad knows everything about sports,” Little Hawk added, in case nobody heard him the first time.

Carolyn’s arrival ended the interrogation. “Billy, Aunt Dana—can you come watch me ride my big girl bike in the coldysack?”

“Why don’t you get your bike and race Carolyn,” Hawk told his son, flashing a competition glare.

Carolyn looked with annoyance at the pudgy child, seemingly remembering the “sand box incident.” “Are you gonna be mean to me?” she asked the boy.

“Nobody is going to be mean to you or I’ll have The Amish Rifle take care of them,” Dana interjected with a laugh.

“My kid ain’t afraid of anyone in no Elmo Suit!” Hawk growled.

Carolyn never met a challenge she didn’t like. “Then what are we waiting for? I’m not getting any younger!”

The Tour de Cul-de-sac ended with Little Hawk winning by default when Carolyn crashed to the pavement, badly scraping her elbows, and almost giving Beth a stroke. But Billy couldn’t help but to admire the fearlessness in the girl, who only cried because she wasn’t granted a rematch.

Following the party, at Beth’s request, Billy retrieved one of his latest versions of Peanut Butter & Jelly and met Carolyn in her room for a bedtime story. Her room really was fit for a princess. The cavernous area looked like an airplane hanger, taking up the entire top floor of the barn, about the size of a football field. The roof was twenty feet high and secured by large timber beams. Back in the day, it was used to store bales of hay.

Despite its grandiosity, the room was set up like a typical little girl’s room. It was filled with dolls, including mop-topped replicas of the Hanson Brothers from Slap Shot fame. Beside them sat half the population of Sesame Street. Beside her bed were pictures of Chuck in his hockey days, along with Carolyn’s hockey stick that she had named Mr. Stick, and her fish, which keeping with the hockey theme, was named Puck. Chuck had told Billy that the independent Carolyn would begin each night in the lonely warehouse of a room, before finding an excuse to slide into bed with him and Beth during the night.

In the story, the school bully was picking on the quiet Peanut Butter and stole her lunch money. Jelly designed a gimmicky plan to set up the bully so he would be caught by the teacher. After the bully got escorted to the principal’s office, both girls got a lecture about not taking the law into their own hands. A lesson learned. Then, later that night while they are lying side by side in their twin beds, they realized they had learned another lesson about sticking up for each other. Jelly then put an exclamation point on the story when she exclaimed, “We will always stick together!” To which Peanut Butter replied, “Stick together!” before the lights went out.

The story enthralled Carolyn. Billy shut the book and put on his reporter hat, still bothered by the “incidents” surrounding her.

“You know you aren’t going to school tomorrow, right?”

“I know.”

“Do you know why?”

“Because I made my tongue bleed?” she answered in the form of a question, as if she wasn’t sure.

“And you thought that was fun?”

“It was at first, but then everybody got mad at me.”

“Is it fun when everybody’s mad at you?”

She went into pouting mode, whimpering, “No, that’s no fun at all.”

Billy started reading another Peanut Butter & Jelly story, hoping to cut any potential crying off at the pass. The moral of this one was not talking to strangers. Midway through the story, Carolyn took the conversation in a completely different direction.

“Will Peanut Butter and Jelly help us if Osama Banana comes to get us?”

Billy was caught off guard. “What?”

“Osama Banana.”

“Do you mean Osama Bin Laden?” he asked, confused. Terrorism was the last topic he was prepared to discuss with her.

“You say banana funny,” she said with a laugh.

“Where’d you learn about Osama…Banana?”

“I saw it on TV this morning when I was getting ready for my party. He had a really big beard and they said he knocked down a big building.”

Billy forgot it was September 11, an infamous day of remembrance.

“Is he like a dragon?” she asked. “He looked real mean!”

“Nobody’s going to get you,” he said, sadly thinking that her worst enemy was herself. He was afraid the only dragon was the one inside of her.

“Promise?”

He grabbed her tiny hand and looked into her hazel ovals, trying to avoid viewing the gruesome mouth area. “I’ll keep the bad people away from you on one condition.”

She sighed dramatically. “I promise to eat all my vegetables.”

Billy smiled. “No, you promise to stop hurting yourself.”

She again looked mystified. So Billy rephrased, “Stop making boo-boos and blood. It makes your mom and dad sad.”

“I promise,” she said, then climbed up on Billy like he were a jungle gym and hugged him around his neck. Emotions rushed back that he hadn’t felt in a long time. “We will always stick together,” she said.

Billy choked back his emotions. “Stick together.”

Carolyn then pulled away, a fun-loving look spreading across her face. “Let’s pretend we’re dragons.”

They made odd sounds, pretending to shoot fire. Their laughter echoed through the cavernous room.

“You be a girl dragon,” Carolyn then said.

“I’m not going to be a girl dragon.”

“Girl dragon!”

“No.”

“Girl dragon!”

“No.”

“You’re funny, Billy,” she said and laughed her contagious laugh. It seemed like all was well in the world once again.

But like many of the other numbing agents he’d tried, Billy knew the pain was still lurking. He couldn’t help but think that something was wrong with Carolyn Whitcomb.

Chapter 15

In the wee morning hours of September 12, a black stretch limousine drove out of the gates of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. The car carried one passenger—U.S. Director of National Intelligence Kerry Rutherford. The silver haired sixty-one-year-old rubbed his wrinkling temples—it had been a long night.

As the September 11 anniversary passed like a ship in the night, sighs of relief could be heard from the many cabinet members who were pulling an all-nighter in the Situation Room. But a lone day without American bloodshed wouldn’t lift the weight from Rutherford’s shoulders. He knew the shadowy terrorists weren’t as concerned with the symbolism of that date as the politicians were. They wanted to color every day of the calendar the color of Western blood. And when the mushroom cloud filled the sky above New York or Los Angeles, there would be a new date on the calendar to mourn.

As if the anniversary of 9/11 weren’t enough motivation, the execution of the Iranian hostages had put the president and his cabinet on high alert. The chatter in intelligence circles consisted of everything from contamination of the water supply to infecting cows with a deadly disease, along with the usual suspects: bridges, tunnels, and nuclear reactors. But Rutherford knew the biggest concern for the politicians in the room was an election only fourteen months away.

He didn’t believe they were bad people who were apathetic to human life. He just felt they were in way over their heads. Rutherford worked under numerous presidents and politicians in his rise from a young marine intelligence officer in Vietnam to the head of the Defense Intelligence Agency (DIA), an influential US intelligence agency run by the Department of Defense and stationed in the Pentagon. With the CIA usually getting the headlines, the DIA often operated under the radar.

To Rutherford, this president was no different than the others he had served. The current “leader of the free world” happened to be a left-leaning Democrat, but Rutherford had learned that all politicians were made from the same cloth, no matter where they fell on the political spectrum. The Republicans tended to spend more money on defense, but in the end, all politicians were tied to the special interests and started seeking re-election before they even got elected. Rutherford didn’t want to get elected; his goal was to save lives.

So another day passed without incident in the most thankless of all thankless jobs. No credit for doing well, but ultimate blame when things went wrong. And in his job, wrong was measured in body bags. But despite the drawbacks, Rutherford didn’t hesitate when asked to take the job of intelligence czar. He had just left his job as head of the DIA and was pondering retirement from public life. But he took it because he felt it was his duty to serve the president when asked. To quote his hero, Nathan Hale, his only regret was having only one life to give for his country.

But any goodwill for surviving the arbitrary September 11 deadline ended around the break of dawn. As the sun rose over the Potomac, word came down of impending congressional hearings regarding the Iran hostage incident, with Rutherford being the star witness. Senator Oliver LaRoche from Pennsylvania, the president’s chief adversary and biggest roadblock to his re-election, would chair the hearings.

Fearing LaRoche’s grandstanding, Rutherford was peppered with questions by the nervous cabinet. But he didn’t answer truthfully. In the intelligence world, telling the truth was not a virtue—it was a sure way of getting people killed.

They maneuvered through morning D.C. traffic, eventually crossing over the Potomac River and arriving at the entrance of Arlington National Cemetery.

“I’ll be about an hour, Benny,” Rutherford told his driver. He then began his daily trek to pay homage to some old friends, which he made every morning when he was in the D.C. area.

Upon departing the car, he meticulously fixed his suit. A career military man, he was always punctual and his uniform in perfect order. He was more comfortable in his military uniform than the dark “civilian” suit he wore this morning.

The morning was warm and muggy, with rain expected later in the day. He struggled to walk the rolling hills of the cemetery, passing an endless ocean of white crosses. Crosses representing sacrifice. He felt sweat seeping through the back of his suit jacket and his aging knees creaked, but he pushed on.

Unlike most tourists, he walked past the eternal flame of John F. Kennedy without a glance. He wasn’t here for politicians. He avoided the trip to view the changing of the guard at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. The soldiers he came to visit were very much known to him.

He laid patriotic ribbons on the scattered gravesites of those from his Vietnam unit, just as he did during each visit, including his best friend Greg Ponson, who died in the arms of the doctor who saved his own life during the Tet Offensive in 1968.

Rutherford then moved to Section-59, where twenty-one fallen comrades were buried. They made up a portion of the over two hundred US military personnel killed at the hands of terrorists on October 23, 1983, in Beirut, an event for which he still felt responsible, and which had shaped his views for the last twenty-plus years. He read the names—Corporal Angellini 1962-1983, Sergeant Laird 1954-1983, First Lieutenant Brewer 1960-1983, Javier R. Heredia, #m-3 United States Navy 1958-1983. And so on, twenty-one times. Kerry Rutherford saluted the men, remembering it like it was yesterday. Tears leaked out from underneath his sunglasses. He wiped them away as if he were wiping away perspiration.

It was just after six a.m. on that fateful October morning in 1983 when a large delivery truck drove to the Beirut International Airport, which also contained the US Marine barracks. After turning onto an access road leading to the campus, the driver rushed through a barbed-wire fence, passed between two sentry posts, and then crashed through the gate to deliver a direct hit on the lobby of the barracks. The driver detonated the explosives and the four-story building crumbled to the ground, crushing numerous US servicemen while they were sleeping.

Kerry Rutherford was a DIA intelligence officer in the region and believed that the agency was also asleep, although not in a literal way. He felt they should have been awake to the danger, but politicians and bureaucrats didn’t allow them to do their job to the best of their ability. If they had, then maybe they would’ve recognized the complexity of the enemy the US now faced, one willing to trade lives in return for a carton of Western blood. It foreshadowed the modern day quandary: how does a civilization fight an enemy who is willing to sacrifice their own lives for the cause, when its own society has embraced a culture where such a sacrifice of life is unacceptable? Rutherford was convinced if the storming of the beaches at Normandy occurred in today’s society, there’d be protestors in the streets. Newscasts would promote body counts, declaring it a failure, and demanding that Roosevelt pull out.

He knew America would have to create its own clandestine fighting force to match this new enemy. Much sacrifice would be necessary, and failure was not an option. Operation Anesthesia would come to symbolize that sacrifice.

But he now concluded that Anesthesia had run its course. He knew that being exposed, which the Iran hostage debacle almost did, would ruin all the work they had done the last twenty years for the greater good.

Chapter 16

Billy thought they had crossed all the t’s and dotted all the i’s last night concerning his gig as Carolyn’s babysitter, which began Monday morning. But he grossly underestimated the neurosis of Beth Whitcomb.

The house was littered with notes like a Post-it bomb had detonated. He spotted the first note on the kitchen counter. It provided instructions concerning Carolyn’s pain medication for her tongue. Another hung inside the refrigerator, banning solid food, and providing a choice of applesauce, pudding, and strawberry milk, which Billy was sure wouldn’t disappoint her. In the breakfast nook was a note reminding him to check her for fevers every half hour. The largest of the memorandums was taped on the front door. It stated in threatening language that they were under no circumstances to miss, or be late for, the long overdue ceremony to spread Beverly’s ashes over the Long Island Sound, which was to begin at seven o’clock sharp. It was going to be a long day.

Billy’s first challenge was to get the notoriously deep sleeper out of bed. As always, she began the night in the airport hanger disguised as her bedroom, but after her first dream about dragons she was planted neatly between her parents in their bed. The room was usually full of sunlight from its surrounding windows, which provided a greenhouse effect. But with drapes drawn, Billy entered into darkness.

He softly shook her, not even receiving a budge. Just a slight whistling snore between the toothless window in the front of her mouth, exposing the healing, but still gruesome, battle-scars on her tongue.

Mesmerized by the tongue, Billy sat beside the sleeping girl. He was no child psychologist by any means, but knew that people mutilated themselves in an attempt to fill a painful void. So why would such a carefree, happy child commit such an act?

He never gave any credence to Beth’s genetic hand-me-down theory, which she sadly clung to. He also doubted that Carolyn ever witnessed Beth hurting herself, resulting in a copycat crime. He did believe Beth when she said she stopped any self-destructive behavior the day the Healing Angel of Pain allegedly talked to her. The only other motivation he could think of was attention. But he doubted the charismatic kid would need to go to such extremes to have the class in the palm of her hand. Nothing added up. She was a happy child—she had no painful void.

Lacking answers, he stood and checked a few more notes, one reminding him to bring Carolyn’s raincoat because of a “40% chance of rain” later in the afternoon. He then turned his attention back to Carolyn, trying to be firmer. “C’mon, sleepy head, time to get up.”

Her eyes opened for a brief moment, before drifting back into her soothing coma.

Billy went to Plan B. He walked to the large drapes that acted as an impenetrable fort from the bright morning sunlight. He pulled them open in one sweeping motion. Sun barreled into the room and it sure didn’t look like a 40% chance of rain. Carolyn turned onto her stomach in disgust and planted her face into the pillow.

“C’mon, sleepy head,” he said again.

She defiantly pulled her pillow over her head.

Still thinking about her tongue, a strange thought popped into his head. He remembered Chuck telling him how she never complained about the deep eye abrasion. He remembered her giggle after the heavy bookcase split her head open. Billy was numb on the inside, so maybe Carolyn was numb on the outside. His fiction-writing mind then ran wild. Could she be an alien? A superhero? Beth did refer to her as an angel. This girl couldn’t feel anything!

He reached his hand to her small leg. Her head was still under the pillow. He pinched as hard as he could.

Carolyn turned over immediately like she’d been shot. Her hair was a tangled mess and she rubbed sleep from her eyes.

Billy laughed at his paranoia. She felt me, but I’m not gonna apologize for having a good imagination.

“It’s about time, sleepyhead.”

She rubbed more sleep out of her eyes. “Hey, I’m not a morning person.”

Her clothing was laid out on a chair in orderly fashion. There was a pair of child-size jeans, mini-sneakers with flashing lights, and a light sweater that featured a large picture of a cow on the front. It was…

“That’s ugly,” Carolyn said with a cringe.

Billy agreed, but the note indicated that Evelyn had knitted the sweater for Carolyn’s birthday as part of the barnyard series she’d been creating. So there was no way around it, the sweater was mandatory.

Carolyn negotiated to tie the sweater around her waist until the ceremony, and just wear a T-shirt during the day. She won the first battle in what Billy assumed would be many throughout the day. Her T-shirt of choice had a red maple leaf on the front with the caption, Canadian Kids R Cool. Billy then tried to help brush her tangled hair. Carolyn got frustrated with his ineptness, and asserted, “I’m a big girl,” before taking matters into her own hands. She clipped on a barrette and made herself look better than Billy ever could have.

When she finished, a curious look formed on her face. She realized her normal morning pattern had been amended. Her face scrunched as she asked, “Where’s my mom?”

“She’s at school.”

Face scrunched again. “Where’s my dad?”

“Hunting.”

“It’s just you and me?”

“Yes.”

Glee swallowed up her scrunch. “We’re gonna haff fun!”

They moved into the kitchen area. Carolyn sat in the breakfast nook and glugged down a glass of strawberry milk. She needed tongue-friendly food, so Billy made his morning special—Cream of Wheat with chocolate chips melted in. Carolyn wasn’t sure what to make of it, but followed Billy’s lead. She stirred it and the white Cream of Wheat turned chocolaty brown. He then made a moat around the outside and filled it with strawberry milk. The final touch was to sprinkle sugar on the center island like he was spreading fertilizer. He warned her it was hot, especially with her tongue recently sewn back together, but she threw caution to the wind and dug in. Billy burned his own tongue on it. With a half-smile, he shook his head at her fearlessness.

Chapter 17

After breakfast, an arduous ten-minute ordeal occurred where Billy attempted to strap Carolyn into her car seat in the back seat of the Cherokee. Strangely, the girl who bit off her tongue for kicks, kept repeating the mantra, “Safety first!” as he continued to struggle. When he mercifully got her strapped in, they headed into town.

They found a parking place in New Canaan town center and walked the rest of the way. It was a quintessential New England village with brick-lined sidewalks, historic looking street lamps, and rows of quaint two-story brick buildings. Rugged trees were mixed in, providing country shade.

Carolyn struggled with the inclines of the rolling hills that made up New Canaan, but showed her usual determined grit as she fought to keep up with him. They passed antique stores, boutiques, coffee bars, and trendy bistros. When they passed firemen washing their trucks outside the firehouse, she negotiated to play on the fire trucks. Billy didn’t think it would be a good idea to be late for his first day of work, so she had to settle for a kid-sized, plastic fire-helmet offered by the firemen.

They eventually arrived at the Shoreline Times, which occupied the second floor of a building on Cherry Street, squeezed between an old-fashioned-style bank and a cozy-looking spa called Aetheria.

The Shoreline Times was a free local newspaper distributed in New Canaan and surrounding towns. Once a thriving gossip tabloid for the social elite, it was now often used for similar tasks as Hawk used it for. Not exactly the New York Times, but a job was a job. It published twice a week—Sunday and Wednesday—and Billy was to write a local human-interest story for each issue at little pay, and nothing resembling benefits. But he couldn’t complain, since he had no previous experience writing or reporting for a paper, and the only reason he got the job was because the editor owed Dana a favor. His first story was going to be on a local diner called Molly’s that was celebrating its 100th anniversary. But Billy had bigger plans for his second story. He planned on writing a retrospective on the Abandoned Girl, twenty years later.

After a predictably bland lunch interview at Molly’s, Billy decided that his first step for the “Abandoned Girl Revisited” story would be to retrace Beth’s path that infamous Christmas Day. He and Carolyn would take the train to where it all began—an hour-long trip to Grand Central Terminal in New York. Carolyn celebrated the news of their train ride by letting out a loud, “Choo-choo!”

As they waited for their train, Billy looked down at the small girl who kept fussily adjusting her toy firefighter helmet. He again wondered how anyone could abandon their four-year-old daughter.

Billy wasn’t sure what his expectation was, but the trip into the city accomplished very little, at least in regards to Beth’s abandonment. But they did get a chance to visit Dana’s agency on Lexington Avenue, which was surprisingly busy for an agency that had never sold a book.

Dana greeted Carolyn with an energetic hug, and exclaimed, “I love your hat.”

Carolyn felt for her firefighter hat, as if she’d forgotten she was wearing it, and then began rambling about her day with Billy: Firefighters! Ice cream at Molly’s! Choo-choo train!

When she finally ran out of breath, Dana turned to Billy. “I’ve been trying to write your bio. I can’t believe you kept this Amish Rifle stuff from me. Not to mention, you also held out on me with these children’s books Beth was raving about at the party.”

That was the least of what he was holding back. “I thought I said I didn’t want to discuss my past.”

“I know, I know. Something about a rear-view mirror, blah, blah, blah.”

“I don’t see how my personal life has anything to do with whether I can sell books.”

He was familiar with her marketing lecture that she always punctuated with, there’s a reason they call them starving artists!

“I’m not going to discuss it with you—I’m going to discuss it with Carolyn. Did you know your friend Billy was a big football star?”

“Wow!”

“Did you know he stood up for his principles and left football to concentrate on his academics?”

“Wow!”

“I thought I said I didn’t want to talk about it, Dana!” Billy’s voice intensified.

“C’mon, Billy, yesterday you were all about my family’s past, but you can’t spare a few details of your own?”

“Life isn’t fair.”

A smile broke out over Dana’s face. “Can you just tell me one thing and I promise I’ll shut up?”

“And that would be?”

Still smiling, she asked, “I understand the rifle part was a metaphor for your strong arm, Mr. Amish Rifle. But are you really Amish?”

“Actually Pennsylvania Dutch, but…”

“That’s the same thing.”

“It’s different.”

“Did you ride around in one of those horse and buggies?

“For your information, we had a station wagon and lived in an apartment building with electricity.”

“You’re both silly,” Carolyn said.

They all laughed.

Dana took them out to lunch at a posh Manhattan eatery. They then traveled back together to New Canaan on the train for Beverly’s “going away” party. It was the same trip that Beth took alone when she was Carolyn’s age.

When they got out at the New Canaan train station, the skies had turned threatening, looking like it was going to rain. Mother always knows best.

Chapter 18

A boat had been chartered to take Beverly out to her final resting place. A party at sea was to follow, which according to Dana, would mimic the way her grandmother had lived: crammed with friends, a flowing stream of alcohol, and no expense spared.

Billy chauffeured Dana and Carolyn to the Norwalk Cove Marina, where the boat was to be launched. Carolyn requested he put on the radio and he obliged. He twisted the knob, old-school style—only the am radio worked in the Cherokee. He stopped on a station where a loud political talk show host was screeching about the Iran hostages. Should have gone in! The president committed treason by not doing so!

Dana made a face.

“He’s loud,” Carolyn said from her car seat in the back, putting her hands over her ears.

Billy agreed, and maneuvered down the dial. Then a familiar voice sprung out at them.

“Hey, that’s Hawk,” Carolyn cheerfully said. “Can we listen to it?”

Billy didn’t want to. “I thought you didn’t like Hawk?”

“I don’t, but I really like hockey,” she said in her do-ra-mi style. “Hawk talks about hockey a lot.”

She was once again emulating her dad, and again got her way.

With a crackle of static, Hawk’s booming vocals filled the Cherokee, “Welcome back for the last half hour of the Hawk on Sports show. Before I get back to the Yankee game from last night, I got a good story for you, Art.”

Art’s job description seemed to be to agree with Hawk at all times and laugh at his attempts at humor. He also sounded like he might’ve had one too many cocktails before the show.

“What’s that Hawk?”

“I’m at a birthday party Sunday afternoon at my neighbor’s house.”

“You were at a birthday party on the opening week of NFL?”

“Don’t even go there, Art,” Hawk said and boomed a laugh. “Thank God for TiVo. Anyway, I run into this guy who I recognize, but can’t place him. Finally it hits me like a ton of bricks. Who you think it is?”

“Not a real man. A real man would be home in his recliner with a beer and a remote, watching the NFL package.”

“You’re cruising for a bruising, Art,” Hawk said and laughed again, “It was Billy Harper. You know, the Amish Rifle.”

“Ohio State Billy Harper? The guy who led the comeback against Michigan like a hundred years ago?”

Billy tried to change the station, but Dana grabbed his hand, suddenly interested.

“The one and only,” Hawk continued. Billy could feel him smirking right through the radio.

“Remember when he quit the next year because he was so interested in his education and that evil university—you know, the one paying for his fifty-thousand-dollar a year education with his football scholarship—was keeping little Billy from doing his biology homework?”

“I do.”

“You would guess such an educated man would be running a major corporation or curing a disease, right? What do you think Billy Harper is doing with himself these days?”

Art laughed. “This must be good.”

“Billy Harper, the one-time Rose Bowl MVP, was dressed in an Elmo costume working the party.”

“Ouch,” Art said like it physically pained him.

Billy felt Dana’s grip loosen on his hand. Probably to allow him to turn the station and maintain the little dignity he had left. But that’s when Art said it.

“Wow, the last I heard that name was when we used to do that feature called Arrested Athlete of the Day. If I recall correctly, he beat his wife up real good. Pretty ugly stuff.”

“I forgot about that,” Hawk recalled, his tone glazed with epiphany. “If half these athletes could hit the ball as good as they hit their wives, they’d be in the Hall of Fame.”

“And then when we tried to get his mug shot to put up on the website for our Hall of Shame the next day, the police acted like I was crazy. No mug shot, no police report, nothing. It was if it never happened,” Art said.

“Typical pampered athlete using his fame and privilege to cover things up. If that was you or I, Art, we’d be auditioning to be somebody’s girlfriend up at Rikers Island.”

Art continued with his inebriated laughter. “Maybe it wasn’t an Elmo suit. Maybe it was a prison jumpsuit and the party was his community service.”

They both had a good laugh at Billy’s expense, before moving on to yelling about the Yankees. Billy flipped off the radio so hard he thought he broke the knob.

Carolyn didn’t even know his last name was Harper, so she didn’t associate the two. But Dana was another story. She pulled away from Billy so sharply he thought she might leap right out the door.

Billy wasn’t going to defend himself, even though Dana’s silence wasn’t of the innocent until proven guilty variety. He was determined to leave the past where he felt it belonged.

Carolyn was anything but silent when they arrived at the marina. She barricaded herself in the backseat and loudly announced that she didn’t want to go. Her mood had done a complete nosedive.

“C’mon, Carolyn, we have to say goodbye to Great Granny,” Dana said.

“I don’t wanna go!”

“Why not?”

Billy thought he knew. He was pretty sure they had underestimated her, and she really did understand what was said on the radio.

She mustered a sad shrug. “I don’t know.”

“Is it because you miss your Great Granny?”

She shrugged again. “I don’t think so.”

Dana smiled at her. “You know when somebody dies they go to heaven. It’s a really nice place.”

She laughed, which surprised Billy. “No you don’t, you go to Sesame Street.”

“Who taught you that?” Dana asked with a quizzical look.

“My dad.”

Then in a complete mood reversal she began singing, Sunny Day, sweeping the clouds away. On my way to where the air is sweet. Can you tell me how to get, how to get to Sesame Street.

When she finished, they discovered the real reason she didn’t want to attend. She didn’t want to wear the mandatory cow sweater. But she eventually compromised, after negotiating a return trip to Molly’s the next day for an ice cream with extra sprinkles.

Billy let out a sigh of relief, even though he knew it was only a temporary reprieve.

Chapter 19

Beth met them on the promenade deck of the boat that advertised itself as the only authentic side-wheeler in the northeast. She was predictably skeptical that Carolyn would make it through the day in one piece. When Carolyn ran to her, Beth instinctively felt her head for a fever she didn’t have.

Beth met Dana with a hug and a peck on the cheek. She greeted Billy warmly, but he knew the minute she and Dana talked, he might as well pack his stuff. He would move out before he’d ever re-live the past by defending himself.

Evelyn met them with a glass of champagne in one hand and the urn in the other, her wild orange hair blowing in the wind. She was overly tanned, having moved to Florida with Beverly’s remains. She kept telling Beth that Beverly had left important items for her that she planned to bring with her on her next trip up from Florida. Beth’s look said they couldn’t be that important if Evelyn had waited a year to give them to her.

Despite a steady rain, the ceremony went off without a hitch, with the one exception that the stiff wind blew Beverly’s ashes back onto the boat after they were finally tossed from over the water. But since the inebriated Evelyn kept referring to Billy as Chuck for the entire night, he doubted that she noticed.

As the rest of the week sped by, Billy continued to be surprised that A) he still lived on the Whitcomb’s property, B) he was still Carolyn’s babysitter, and C) Chuck hadn’t returned home to shoot him.

He couldn’t imagine Dana not telling Beth what she heard on the radio. And he expected Beth’s reaction to be swift and unforgiving; to the point that he’d be begging Chuck for a mercy shot.

Billy would spend the mornings working on his writing—coming up with ideas for his second novel, along with the next installment of Peanut Butter & Jelly. Then midday, he and Carolyn would work in the yard. She especially liked riding around with him on the tractor, cutting the lawn. He also got his bike out of the mothballs and they would ride around the cul-de-sac. He used the evenings to write his articles for the Shoreline Times.

Billy continued writing the retrospective article on Beth without her authorization, figuring he had nothing to lose. He used Dana as his source, also without permission. He was sure he’d soon be looking for a new agent, also.

Chuck was to return Friday night. Billy figured that’s when the guillotine would drop on his rental agreement, and perhaps his neck. But regardless, he still had a Friday deadline for the Sunday edition. He finished the article on Molly’s by Wednesday, but had yet to finish the retrospective on the abandoned girl. He wanted it to be the best thing he’d ever written. He sat at his laptop—a Dana Boulanger charitable contribution—finishing the final paragraphs.

Carolyn wasn’t especially interested in her mother’s legacy. She wanted to play.

“You wanna catch fireflies, Billy?”

He looked up from the laptop. “Not right now, Carolyn. We are going to barbecue some chicken in a few minutes. You can help me—your dad is going to be home tonight.”

It didn’t register. “Hey—I gotta good idea. I think we should ride bikes!”

“No.”

“How ’bout we color?” She got up to run. “I’ll get the crayons.”

“No, Carolyn!”

She stopped and turned back toward him, looking at him with her big negotiator eyes. “Then I guess we’re gonna haff to ride bikes,” she said with a wispy shrug and grin.

Billy devised a compromise—they would both write. He wrote his article, while she scribbled with crayons on a piece of scrap paper.

“I’m writing a story just like you, Billy.”

“That’s good.”

“When I grow up I’m gonna be a newspaper writer.”

“I thought you were going to be a firefighter?”

She sighed. “Can’t a girl change her mind?”

He couldn’t hide his smile. “I’m not sure newspapers will still be around when you’re my age. Maybe you should think about starting a blog instead.”

“Blog rhymes with frog,” she said, then performed her best frog imitation—ribbit…ribbit. It was cute the first few times, but got old real quick.

They finished their masterpieces simultaneously. Billy emailed his story to his editor, and Carolyn displayed her work for his viewing. The scribbles weren’t legible, but that didn’t stop Carolyn from reading them aloud, “I love Mommy, Daddy, Billy, Aunt Dana. I hope they never die and go to Sesame Street. But if they do, I hope I can come because it would be fun!”

He was really going to miss her.

They moved to the top of the cottage and Billy started the barbecue. Regardless of his fate, he thought cooking a meal for Chuck and Beth would be the least he could do for giving him one of the most fulfilling weeks he’d had in a long time.

Carolyn was his assistant, stirring the barbecue sauce before Billy brushed it on the chicken. She referred to it as “painting the chicken.” But she ate most of the profits by dipping her finger into the spicy sauce and licking it off.

“Doesn’t it sting?” he asked, thinking of her wounded tongue.

She giggled and took another fingerful. “Like a bee?”

“Something like that.”

She made a buzzing sound. “I’m gonna sting you, Billy,” she said and poked him with her finger.

He smiled. “Come on and help me paint the chicken before you eat it all.”

In one ear and out the other. “Now you be a bee and try to sting me!”

She began to run from him.

“Get back here, Carolyn, be careful!”

She continued to run, heading for the steep stairs. “You can’t catch me, Billy!”

“Get back here, Carolyn!”

She rapidly approached the dangerous stairs.

“Watch me fly like a bee, Billy!”

“Nooo, Carolyn!”

She looked back and smiled—

And then she jumped.

Chapter 20

Following another morning visit to Arlington, Kerry Rutherford instructed his driver to bring him to his Northern Virginia estate so he could get some much needed rest and relaxation. Benny, his longtime driver, rolled his eyes and mentioned that he didn’t think Rutherford would ever get any rest until he caught all the bad guys. Benny was right.

They drove past the Pentagon, which was the castle where Rutherford was king for so many years. Then into the bumper-to-bumper morning traffic of I-95 South. They passed Quantico, where he had done the majority of his marine training. Memories hit him like a wave pounding the beach.

Twenty minutes after Benny dropped him off at his home, Rutherford was in his government-issued, bulletproof GMC Yukon XL. He drove out of the city, the road soon turning into a quiet highway lined by thick trees and overhanging greenery. An hour later he arrived in Fredericksburg, a sleepy city off of I-95, the complete opposite of the busy Beltway area. The main drag in the town featured nothing but chain store after chain store, which all blended together into a monotonous backdrop. That was one of the reasons they selected it.

Rutherford turned off a road that rested between an Applebee’s and a NAPA Auto Parts. He passed through a small historic district, which included George Washington’s childhood home. The place where he allegedly claimed he never told a lie. Rutherford respected the father of his country, most admiring him as a courageous soldier, but doubted Washington could’ve been an effective intelligence officer with such a philosophy.

He arrived at a row of block-shaped warehouses in an industrial park. He turned into the first driveway, pulling up to a non-descript, windowless cube of cement. It was the building that had housed Stipe Security for the last twelve years. The expectation would be that one of the world’s leading security companies would be housed in a luxury high-rise, but low profile was the key to everything.

Franklin Stipe had always been a problem, but lately his over-the-top attitude had gone too far, and the threatening phone call demanding this meeting was the last straw. Iran was a long overdue wakeup call for Rutherford. Operation Anesthesia had to end before Stipe was raising his right hand before Congress, basking in the spotlight as he trampled on the Operation’s legacy. Rutherford had created Stipe Security with the sole purpose of funneling money to Operation Anesthesia via legitimate government contracts, and had put Stipe, then a young marine, in charge. And now he was going to show him who his daddy was.

Stipe sat behind a cluttered desk with his usual cocky grin.

“I got your message,” Rutherford greeted him coldly. “What do you want?”

“Since you’re in charge of US intelligence, shouldn’t you know?”

“That’s the same smug arrogance that led to the debacle in Iran.”

“I thought I heard you say in your press conference that no such mission took place. An intelligence officer not telling the truth, I’m shocked.”

“I thought I made myself very clear: Anesthesia is over.” Rutherford had little patience. And even less for a subordinate like Stipe.

“One mistake in twenty years and you’re ready to bail. Are you sure you just aren’t covering your own ass now that you’re Mr. Big Shot?” Rutherford wanted to physically remove Stipe’s smirk from his face. “Funny how all that patriotic, greater-good mumbo jumbo sounded better when you didn’t have such a high-profile target on your ass.”

“This wasn’t one incident,” Rutherford scolded parentally. “Nor did the downfall start and end in Iran. This happened because of power struggles within the ranks that diverted focus from the original mission statement. Each small crack has laid the foundation of a fault line, and I’m going to put an end to it before a major earthquake occurs.”

Stipe stood and limped to the water cooler. His shirt was unbuttoned to his navel, exposing his scars. It was as if he was trying to show Rutherford he was every bit the soldier he was, like a child trying to live up to his father.

“Good thing you set me up with a good medical plan when you set this place up, Kerry. Going through worker’s comp is a bitch. Just one big bureaucracy—the only thing worse is the government,” he said with a shit-eating grin.

“You still haven’t told me why I’m here,” Rutherford said, anger building.

“Oh yeah,” Stipe said, having returned behind his desk, “We have another bidder. Either you pay up and continue to support Operation Anesthesia, or we’ll be forced to go another direction. You know, free market. Isn’t that the American way we’ve been fighting for all these years?”

“Another bidder?”

“Al Muttahedah. They’re…” he stopped in mid sentence, maintaining his mocking grin, “Oh yeah, you’d know who they are.”

“You sick son of a bitch,” Rutherford lost his usual cool. “I started this operation, it served a purpose for the greater good, and now I’m going to end it.”

“It was your idea to go to Iran and snoop around on the taxpayer money you funneled to Stipe Security.”

“And if you didn’t screw it up then maybe we wouldn’t be in this predicament!”

Stipe took out a small recorder and placed it on the desk. “If you are so confident all this was for the good of mankind, I’m sure you won’t have a problem sending this tape to LaRoche, to see what his congressional panel thinks of it.”

Rutherford took a step back. He felt woozy. “You’re taping this?”

“We’re one of the leading security companies in the country. We tape everything. It’s the sending it to Congress part I’d be worried about if I was you.”

“Give me the tape! Do you know who you are dealing with?” Rutherford barked, swiping unsuccessfully at the recorder.

Stipe laughed as he tossed the recorder to Rutherford, who awkwardly caught it. “I’m not taping you. Only Nixon was stupid enough to do that. Besides, if I were, you’d never know until it was too late. But I do think it’s important that you come to the realization that you’re no longer in charge of this operation.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“I’m not threatening anyone. This is just good old fashioned capitalism. Supply and demand. And it’s not just me; the doctors are in full agreement. Either you pay for our services or I go to Al Muttahedah.”

Rutherford wasn’t worried about himself; he’d already given his life for his country. He had sacrificed everything to protect the US from an enemy like the one Stipe was willing to do business with. He doubted the part about Naqui being part of this coup d’état, but wasn’t as sure about Naqui as he once was.

He visualized the mushroom cloud rising up from the city streets. America was his child, and if his child were kidnapped then he would grit his teeth and pay the ransom. The irony was as thick as the cloud he visualized.

“I’ll pay,” he finally said.

“Good,” Stipe replied, then handed him a glossy photo of an attractive family of blonds. “Since we’re still on the same team, I guess you should take a look at these.”

“What’s this?” Rutherford asked with annoyance.

“These are the Lerners. They’re our new recruits, partner.”

Chapter 21

The doctors in the emergency room at Norwalk Hospital told the Whitcombs what they could, based on their extensive medical training. Carolyn had a broken collarbone and severely sprained ligaments in her right ankle. Her little body was covered with cuts and abrasions, looking like a painted mural of reds and purples.

Billy looked on, bewildered, and more concerned with what the doctors couldn’t tell them. How did a four-year-old girl leap off a twenty-five foot drop, and then get up and run again? These doctors were trained in the scientific—not the mystical.

Billy relived the moment, still unable to wrap his frazzled mind around what he had witnessed. He couldn’t shake the horror he felt when she jumped. He would remember it for the rest of his life. She was heading toward certain death when her foot caught on one of the steps. She veered off to the right, and luckily tumbled over the railing and toward a bush. The bush slightly slowed her descent, but she still crashed to the ground with a vicious thud.

Then things turned science fiction. Not only was Carolyn not dead, but she rose to her feet. She started running again, her right ankle limply hanging. She craned her neck back at Billy, who stood stunned at the top of the stairs. And without missing a beat, she exclaimed, “You can’t catch me, Billy!”

She tried to point in his direction, but her shoulder was out of joint and hung lifelessly at her side. Her ankle had turned to jelly, buckling under as she tried to run. She kept falling to the ground like a drunk failing a sobriety test, and then repeating the process over and over. The look on her face was not pain, but confusion.

He could tell the doctors doubted his improbable interpretation of events. He wouldn’t have believed it himself if he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes. The superhero and alien theories didn’t seem so wild anymore. The doctors fit Carolyn with a sling for her badly damaged collarbone and an air-cast for the ankle. They gave her pain medication, although Billy wasn’t sure it would be necessary.

Beth and Chuck—who was already on his way home from his hunting trip when he got the call— took their daughter home, along with the eight-hundred-pound gorilla in the room that wasn’t addressed. Those answers would have to wait until Monday when they were scheduled to meet with the leading pediatric neurologists at Yale/New Haven Hospital.

Something else was nagging at Billy. Why hadn’t Dana told Beth and Chuck about his arrest? He would have been an instant suspect in Carolyn’s swan dive off the staircase, if they knew. But once again, Billy knew beggars couldn’t be choosers, so he returned home with the Whitcombs, feeling no urge to blow the whistle on himself and expedite his homelessness.

Carolyn spent the weekend confined to a wheelchair. She was fascinated with how certain body parts no longer operated correctly, but showed no signs of pain. She actually seemed to be reveling in being in her wheelchair, having her every whim waited on like a true princess.

Beth and Chuck were paralyzed by uncertainty. Especially Beth, who had always been convinced there was something horribly wrong with her daughter, linked to her own self-destructive behavior. She looked resigned to the fact that Monday’s consultation would cement her fears.

The dark clouds lifted slightly Sunday morning. The Shoreline Times arrived with two pictures of Beth Whitcomb on the front cover, twenty-one years apart. “Abandoned No More” was the boldfaced headline.

Billy made his chocolate Cream of Wheat specialty, requested by the princess, while Chuck read aloud. The article didn’t delve into Beth’s most recent abandonment by the Boulangers. Rather, it focused on an intelligent, caring mother who found love with a hockey player, and was the proud owner of the world’s most wonderful daughter.

When he finished reading, Carolyn tried to clap, but her shoulder wouldn’t work. So she raised her glass of strawberry milk with her healthy arm and toasted Beth. “Mommy rocks!”

Chuck and Billy held up their orange juice and seconded, “Mommy rocks!”

Beth was overcome with emotion. Billy wasn’t sure what to expect since he hadn’t sought permission, and they hadn’t exactly gotten off to the best start together. He expected to be evicted by this point anyway, which would’ve rendered it a non-issue. But ever since their confrontation in the cottage, they had slowly begun to chip away at each other’s icy exteriors, forging a bond of painful pasts.

By Sunday night, everyone, including Carolyn, started to grasp the gravity of the situation and the house grew ominously quiet. They stared blankly at an episode of Desperate Housewives before Chuck took Carolyn up to her room to tuck her in for the night. After he sang his nightly lullabies—a customized version Neil Diamond’s “Sweet Caroline,” which he changed to “Sweet Carolyn,” and as to not damage his macho image, Metallica’s “Enter Sandman”—he passed the baton.

Billy entered the airport hanger and sat on the edge of her bed, story in hand. She called him to come closer and whispered in her most serious tone, “I don’t like hospitals—I don’t wanna go.”

“They’re going to make you all better, so you don’t have to be in a wheelchair anymore.”

“I kind of like being in a wheelchair. It’s fun—and everybody is ’sessing over me.”

Billy had predicted such fears, and brought with him what he felt was the perfect Peanut Butter & Jelly story for the situation. In this one, Peanut Butter needed to have her tonsils out, but she was scared. So the two girls concocted a plot to escape from the hospital, and almost pulled it off, before a nice doctor caught them. They learned the lesson that doctors are there to help them, and it ended happily with a bowl of ice cream for the girls.

“Will I get ice cream?” Carolyn asked.

“If you are a good girl you will. Then when you come home, we’re going to color, ride bikes, paint the chicken, you name it.”

Her face twisted with anxiousness. “Whoa—you’re going, right?”

“I have to work on my articles.”

A lonely tear trickled down her apple cheek. “Stick together, remember?”

Billy remembered why he had a rule about dating actresses. He always gave in to the drama. “You’re right—stick together.”

Chapter 22

Monday morning, Billy and the Whitcombs traveled thirty minutes up the Merritt Parkway to Yale/New Haven Hospital.

Billy knew they were dealing with something very rare because every few minutes a different doctor would stroll into Carolyn’s room with a wide-eyed look of wonderment. They would poke and prod her, before uttering, “remarkable” or “never seen anything like it.”

Carolyn was officially a science experiment.

A team of doctors interviewed the Whitcombs. They rubbed their chins and took copious notes. Beth opened up about her drinking and self-destructive behavior. The doctors continued writing. They asked her about family history of disease, focusing on any potential leprosy, paresthesia, and TB, but all she could contribute was the adoption/abandonment tale.

Billy retold the story of the little girl jumping off the porch and then gleefully running away, despite significant structural injury to her limbs. They wrote more notes and continued rubbing chins. He could tell they were no closer to answers.

Billy tried to keep Carolyn’s spirits up. He would come to visit in the early morning, then leave to work on his stories in the afternoon, before returning in the evening. This week’s article was a feature on the starting quarterback for New Canaan High for the upcoming season. The hook was that it was a female. Dana, who was surprisingly still his agent, and acting as if the radio “incident” never happened, quipped that if the Amish could successfully quarterback then it should be a piece of cake for women.

As the week moved on, Carolyn continued to be treated like a cross between a circus freak and an extraterrestrial, and her spirits continued to spiral. When Billy left Friday morning, she gave a half hearted, “See ya later, alligator.”

He could tell her heart wasn’t in it. She tried to smile at him, but it came out in the form of a frown. Then more doctors arrived with fake smiles that she saw right through. Remarkable. Never seen anything like it.

Billy had received more response to his retrospective article on Beth than he ever would have thought. He had his doubts that anyone actually read the Shoreline Times. Most were complimentary reviews of the article via email—an address was included with his byline—and some longtime residents even related their memories of the original “Abandoned Girl” story through handwritten letters. But one email stood out from the others. It was from a Debi Edelstein, who alleged to have been in Grand Central on that Christmas Day and witnessed Beth’s parents conspire to put her on a train. Billy agreed to meet her at Grand Central—the scene of the crime.

Debi Edelstein had a thick head of brown hair that time had streaked with gray. She carried herself as a savvy New Yorker, and was blessed with the gift of gab, barely letting Billy get a word in. Based on her sophisticated look, she definitely didn’t come across as a kook, but Billy knew better than most that looks were often deceiving.

She informed him that she’d been waiting to meet her husband and son that day in the exact spot she and Billy now stood. They had planned to meet at Grand Central, where they would grab a subway to Penn Station to catch the Knicks game that night. Quoting the well-known Christmas carol, she said that on Christmas night all Christians sing, and then joked that all Jews go to basketball games.

As she waited for her family to arrive that evening, she took note of Beth’s parents. Their paranoid behavior stood out to her, from their nervous body language, to overhearing their too-loud talk of people being after them. She claimed to have sought out a security guard, but by the time she returned, the family was already gone, and she never pursued her suspicions with the police. When Billy asked her reaction when the same girl turned up “abandoned” in Connecticut, she said she never knew anything about it until she read Billy’s retrospective during a visit to her son and daughter-in-law’s home in Westport this past Sunday. The lifetime Mannhattanite suggested that it never made big headlines in New York, probably buried under stories of ten other abandoned kids.

Her sudden connection after viewing the photo of a child she only briefly crossed paths with over twenty years ago seemed a little convenient and a lot unlikely to Billy. But he did his due diligence, pushing her as to what she thought they were up to. Her theory was that they were selling the girl on the black market, and those after them were the authorities, perhaps the FBI.

As a fiction writer, Billy could respect a wild theory. And fresh off watching a little girl attempt to fly, and live, he was in no position to rule anything out. But he found it a little too grassy knoll, and got the feeling that Debi Edelstein might be a frustrated screenwriter with an overactive imagination. I’m just not gonna apologize for having a good imagination. But that’s when she mentioned the disfigured brother Beth talked of, remembering the mother calling the boy Nathan.

The obvious question was, how she could remember the name of a passerby in a train station who she supposedly hadn’t thought about in over twenty years. She answered that Nathan was the name of her own son, which had sparked a haunting vision of her son being disfigured. She claimed that she couldn’t get the thought out of her mind for days.

Billy wasn’t sure what to make of the answer, or how truthful her account of events was, but he couldn’t deny that Beth and Debi Edelstein remembering the same disfigured brother named Nathan couldn’t have been a coincidence. The only thing Billy was sure of was that there was a lot more to the story of the abandoned girl.

He took Debi Edelstein’s number and boarded a train back to Connecticut with more questions than he started with. As the train careened out of Grand Central tunnel into the bright sunlight of upper Manhattan, a man sat down beside Billy. He was probably in his late fifties or early sixties, and was dressed nattily in a shirt and tie.

“Billy Harper?” he asked.

Billy looked surprised. “How do you know who I am?”

“I’ve been following you.”

This got his attention.

“I work on my own these days. I make less money, but I take on clients I like, and do stress-free stuff like real estate closings and wills. I used to work for the sweatshop law firm Evans, Kramer & Gordon. Hundred hour weeks—worked on holidays—never saw my family. My best friend dropped dead of a heart attack one day at forty-two.” He shook his head sadly. “Forty-two. I still can’t believe it. Had two daughters, a wife…”

“I’m not following.”

“What I’m trying to tell you, Mr. Harper, is I worked in the city on Christmas Day, twenty-one years ago. I lived in Greenwich and took the train home that evening. There were very few people on the train. I happened to be sitting by a four-year-old girl named Elizabeth.”

“What are you telling me?”

“It’s not what I’m telling you—it’s what she told me. I asked her how old she was and she said four, but was five on the train. I grew concerned about her. My own daughter was about the same age, and I couldn’t imagine her riding the train by herself, so I asked her if she was meeting someone.”

“Who was she going to meet?”

“She said she was on her way to meet someone called Mrs. B.”

Billy reached for some extra air for his lungs. All of a sudden Debi Edelstein’s black market theory didn’t sound far off. In fact, it seemed the most likely scenario. Beth was headed for someone specific. She was sold. Sold to Mrs. B.

The man continued, “When I arrived in Greenwich, I realized who Mrs. B was. It was Tom Boulanger’s wife. She ran to the little girl and wrapped her arms around her. She called her Beth. She definitely knew who she was.”

“So what was your reaction when the stories about the abandoned girl came out in the following days?”

“I knew it was a fabrication created by the Boulanger family. The little girl wasn’t wandering around, and they certainly weren’t looking for the girl’s parents.”

Billy looked quizzically at him. There was more to this.

The man picked up on it. “Let’s just say you didn’t cross Tom Boulanger in those days. I just counted my blessings nobody noticed me. Like I said, dropping dead at forty-two wasn’t on my things to do list.”

“According to his daughter, Tom Boulanger had a stroke and is in a convalescence home, and his wife died years ago. It’s safe to go on record. This was all a very long time ago and everybody could use some closure.”

Despite his own words, Billy knew there was no such thing as closure when it came to the past. You just hope to numb the memories the best you can.

The train stopped and the man got up. “Go on record for what? Whatever conversation you think we just had, Mr. Harper, I can assure you we didn’t.” Then, like a ghost, he was gone.

Billy’s cell phone rang, startling him. What now?

It was Chuck. “Billy, a diagnosis is in.”

“What is it?” he asked with trepidation.

“I have no idea. Carolyn is having a temper tantrum. She won’t talk to the doctors without you here. Something about sticking together.”

Chapter 23

“We have diagnosed Carolyn with a rare genetic disorder called Congenital Insensitivity to Pain with Anhidrosis, or CIPA for short,” Dr. Carlson said.

The other Dr. Carlson in the room, her husband, picked up where his wife left off, “Carolyn is at the HSAN IV level, which is inherited as an autosomal recessive trait. The specific gene affected is NTRKI and the gene product is neurotrophic tyrosine kinase receptor type one.”

The female Dr. Carlson was an attractive Asian woman, her skin appearing to be made from porcelain. Her husband was Caucasian and scruffy-looking. His cheeks were bloated and ruddy, and he had just a horseshoe ring of hair around the sides of his head. They were quite a contrast.

She read the baffled looks. “You will have to excuse my husband, he only speaks nerd. I will try to translate into English. Carolyn has a genetic disorder where she can’t feel pain or temperature sensation. And when my husband said CIPA is rare, he meant it’s so rare that there are less than a hundred cases known in the United States at this time.”

The looks turned to shock. She can’t feel pain? There is such a thing?

The female doctor continued, “We found no other abnormalities with her. For example, she can feel texture.” The doctor ran a scalpel along Carolyn’s exposed leg that descended from her hospital gown. Carolyn twitched, feeling its presence.

“She also tested positive for weight-carrying capability. So when she’s carrying her My Little Pony backpack around, she feels its weight. What she can’t feel is pain.”

Billy remembered when he pinched her leg on the bed and she flinched. She could feel, just not pain.

The doctor then flipped Carolyn onto her stomach and took out a long needle. She proceeded to insert it into Carolyn’s buttocks. It made everyone in the room squeamish, but Carolyn didn’t even flinch. Billy now understood why she was so fearless: there was no pain to fear.

Carolyn giggled and said, “She touched my hiney.”

Hindsight was always twenty/twenty. How many times would you hear someone say after a loved-one spiraled into tragedy, “The signs were there—I don’t know how we missed them.”

This case was no different. The first one was when Carolyn wasn’t even fazed by what should’ve been a debilitating abrasion on her cornea. Not to mention the giggles when the bookcase hit her, causing a deep gash. Everyone just said she was tough or took after her father, and even nicknamed her the Boo-Boo Machine. Billy wondered how many other incidents had occurred before he’d arrived.

While the signs were present, each individual incident could have been explained away in one way or another. But the leap off the porch was the smoking gun. But a disorder where a person couldn’t feel pain—who would-a thunk it? It was too bizarre to even imagine!

A sense of relief started to form a groundswell and the feeling of impending doom began to lift. Everybody was prepared for the worst, even if they didn’t know exactly what that was. This wasn’t the worst.

As everyone began to digest the surreal diagnosis, one question stood out. And Chuck asked it, “I have a bum knee and a weathervane for a shoulder. Just getting out of bed in the morning is a painful process. Isn’t it a good thing she can’t feel pain?”

The female doctor sadly shook her head. “As a mother myself, I have often prayed for any pain my child felt to be taken away. But pain has a purpose, Mr. Whitcomb. Carolyn’s tongue is the perfect example—she didn’t know she was causing serious damage.”

“I was just havin’ fun,” Carolyn reiterated, and for the first time it made sense.

“They are natural self-mutilators,” the female doctor continued, and the debilitating weight of guilt seemed to lift off of Beth’s shoulders. “Carolyn was actually very lucky she knocked her front teeth out. Teeth are the mortal enemies of those with CIPA.”

The male doctor interjected, “Hot temperatures are also a problem. The scars on her hand from touching the barbecue could’ve been a lot worse. CIPA patients have been known to unknowingly touch scorching temperatures until it melts away the skin and bone. But the biggest long-term problem is pressure on the joints. Since they don’t feel pain, they often don’t realize the damage they are doing. Sadly, many end up in wheelchairs at a young age.”

“It can also be very dangerous if a CIPA patient gets appendicitis or tonsillitis. Since they can’t detect it, it often goes untreated, and can be fatal,” the female stated.

Beth seemed in the early stages of being overwhelmed. Noticing this, the female doctor grabbed her hand. “I don’t mean to alarm you. With the right choices and education, Carolyn can live a normal life. And she can feel where it’s most important—in her heart. She will feel happiness and cry when she gets her feelings hurt. Feelings on the inside always override the outside touch.”

Beth released tears of relief. Chuck comforted her, while asking, “Is there a cure?”

The male doctor answered, “There is no cure at this time. So the key is education. For example, I have a bad back and needed to be educated to bend with my legs when I’m lifting heavy objects. With Carolyn, someone must test her food to make sure it’s not too hot, and she needs to learn to immediately stop when she recognizes blood, to name a few.”

Billy remembered the sizzling Cream of Wheat she gobbled down with her tongue still an open wound.

“And she must be educated about her joints. Choosing to take up the sport of hockey wouldn’t be sensible. While swimming, which puts little pressure on the joints, makes sense,” the male doctor added.

“Studies have also shown CIPA patients to be more susceptible to emotional trauma,” the female cut in. “When a child grows up with no fear, they often can become reckless in their attempts to achieve feeling. Drug abuse is prevalent. I would recommend getting Carolyn into some type of therapy at a young age.”

“But putting the child in a bubble isn’t the answer. Smart choices are,” the male said.

Billy flashed Beth an “I told you so” smirk. The tension broke and they fell into laughter. Soon the whole room was cracking up. Billy laughed so hard his stomach hurt. It was good to feel the pain.

Chapter 24

“Can I still play hockey?” Carolyn asked. Her face said she didn’t like where the conversation was headed.

“We’ll talk about it later, princess,” Chuck said.

“I’ll be really-really careful.”

She was always negotiating.

The female doctor then went into a cabinet above the examination table and pulled out a rudimentary thermometer. She shook it, and then instructed, “Say ah, Carolyn.”

Carolyn opened her mouth as wide as she could, exposing her still-unsightly tongue, and shouted, “Ahh!”
The female doctor placed it under her tongue and then examined the reading. “100.3,” she said.

Her husband nodded and said, “The fevers are very much connected to this. The without anhidrosis part means she doesn’t sweat properly. That is why during intense activity she begins to boil on the inside. Like a car without a temperature gauge. As long as this is monitored and she takes the medication we will prescribe, I believe the fevers can be controlled. Her symptoms are very mild in this case, and only were displayed when she was involved in extreme activity.”

His wife added, “She’s a lucky one. For many children with CIPA, the inability to sweat leads to mental retardation in the first few years of life, or they die from the overheating.”

“So how did she get this?” Chuck asked.

The male doctor’s chest puffed out of his white lab coat. Billy could tell he really enjoyed the science part, not so much the bedside manner.

“Humans have twenty-three pairs of chromosomes,” he began, “the exact position within a gene is called a locus. In the case of the HSAN IV, the genes are mutated in both parents and inherited by the child as an autosomal recessive trait.”

His wife rolled her eyes. “Once again, let me translate. Carolyn inherited this from both of you. Both parents have to be carriers, which is one of the reasons why it’s so rare. We estimate one in two hundred million acquire CIPA and there are less than a hundred cases in the United States. Based on the fact that two people with such a rare mutated gene found each other, I would say, in my best medical opinion, that you two truly must be soul mates. And I’d also suggest purchasing lottery tickets.”

The relief was oozing out of Beth. “So you’re saying that my drinking during pregnancy or any other self destructive behavior had nothing to do with this?”
“Absolutely not,” the female doctor scolded. “And you must stop blaming yourself. Sure, there are a unique set of challenges here, but I see parents every day who would give anything for such an intelligent, vivacious, and healthy little girl.”

She patted Carolyn on the head.

“I think this healthy little girl should get to play hockey!” Carolyn blurted in her do-ra-mi style.

The doctors began taking questions from the intrigued group like they were giving a press conference. Chuck grabbed Beth’s hand and asked if future children would acquire CIPA. The doctors gave it a one in four chance. But other children could be carriers without symptoms. When asked why Carolyn could feel textures, but not pain, the doctors compared it to someone losing their sight but not their hearing. CIPA affects only the nerve endings.

When the doctor press conference concluded, there was one more set of unfinished business.

The female doctor began, “This is a unique diagnosis for us. We are confident it’s the right one, but we want to send Carolyn to the Jordan Children’s Hospital in North Carolina to be examined by Dr. Samuel Jordan. Dr. Jordan is one of the leading pediatric neurologists in the world, and is unequivocally the world’s biggest expert in CIPA. We want him to confirm our diagnosis.”

“We took the liberty of setting up an appointment with Dr. Jordan for Monday. All expenses paid. You’d be flown on his private jet,” the male added.

Carolyn’s face exploded with excitement. “An airplane?”

Beth didn’t share her daughter’s enthusiasm. “I don’t want my daughter to become some guinea pig for science.”

The doctors assured that there would be no further commitment with Dr. Jordan beyond a second opinion on the diagnosis. They also believed his CIPA experience could be helpful in setting up a training program to educate them on CIPA, and make Carolyn’s long road less perilous. It was an offer they couldn’t refuse.

After returning home to the barn that night, the diagnosis began to somewhat sink in. Despite its surreal nature, it was what they expected in some regards, from the standpoint that it was a life-altering diagnosis, but it wasn’t the type of diagnosis that rips lives apart, and for that they were thankful.

They ordered pizza from Uncle Joe’s Restaurant in Norwalk, and the diagnosis sure didn’t put a damper on anyone’s appetite, especially Carolyn. It was as normal as a Friday night could be when you learn your daughter is an alien. Carolyn caught fireflies and then negotiated to play for “five more minutes,” which lasted about an hour. She finally gave in, changing into her pajamas and climbing into bed. Chuck sang to her, and then she called for Billy. The usual.

He didn’t have a Peanut Butter & Jelly story for the occasion, but did have a few questions.

“Did you understand what the doctors said?”

“That I got Congenital Insensitivity to Pain with Anhidrosis, silly.”

Billy smiled. “That’s a mouthful. Do you know what it means?”

“That I can’t feel my boo-boos.”

“That’s right.”

Her face scrunched in thought. “What do boo-boos feel like?”

“You know when you get sad?”

“Uh-huh, like when they say I can’t play hockey.”

“Well, that’s kind of what boo-boos feel like.”

“Then I’m really glad I don’t feel boo-boos,” she do-ra-mi’d.

“That makes you really special.”

“Dr. Carlson said I’m one in a hundred million!”

When Carolyn drifted off to sleep, Billy slipped out of the room. Before exiting, he snuck a glance back at the “special” girl and another chunk of the iceberg broke off into the sea, his heart continuing to thaw. But like that first spring-like day in March, he knew there was always another snowstorm that would hit before spring had truly arrived.

Chapter 25

Dr. Dash Naqui stood like many of the other tourists in the Lincoln Memorial. He was dressed in a lavender Polo shirt tucked into khaki shorts, sandals, and no socks. He moved toward the enormous statue of Lincoln, who was sitting comfortably in his chair and probably wondering if the sacrifices he had made for life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness for all Americans were in vain. A century and a half later, Naqui wondered the same thing.

He had spent the previous day lobbying Congress for federal funding of stem cell research. The only thing that made sense to him anymore was finding a cure for Claire. He never questioned that battle.

He read Lincoln’s words from the Gettysburg Address that were inscribed on the south wall of the memorial. They described the ultimate sacrifices for liberty. Naqui thought of the young men and women of Operation Anesthesia, whom he thought of as his own children. Many had sacrificed their lives so the nation could live. Thoughts of the children got to him, as they always did, and he was forced to walk outside, away from the crowds that had filled the memorial.

He crossed under the thirty-two Doric columns of the memorial that gave it the look of a Greek temple, one for each state of the union at the time of Lincoln’s death. Naqui stared out at the Washington Monument in the distance, which hid the majestic rotunda of the US Capital—the two great monuments of freedom were built in perfect linear symmetry. He always thought this view was a symbol of stability in the unstable world. A sign that despite all its doubts and struggles, America would always prevail, as would the dream it stood for. At least Naqui used to think so.

Naqui looked down at his feet to see the plaque that signified where Martin Luther King Jr. stood to deliver his historic “I Have a Dream” speech. One specific line from the speech rushed back to him, “...still languishing in the corners of American society and finds himself in exile in his own land.”

Naqui’s fists clenched. He wondered if a man like Dr. King who provided so much hope ever questioned his own faith in America. Did he really believe his dream would come true—a future in which all men stood as equals? Was it really a place worth fighting for?

But suddenly, as if Lincoln and King were whispering in his ear, Naqui felt a sudden resolve come over him. The voices told him that America is built of the people and for the people, and since people are flawed, America would always be flawed. But the ideals it stood for, the same ideals Lincoln and King fought for, were not flawed, and worth the ultimate sacrifices. He wasn’t betrayed by America, but by flawed men living within its boundaries. The same type of men who assassinated Lincoln and King. He knew Operation Anesthesia must carry on their fight.

Naqui descended the steep marble steps with a renewed vigor. He turned to his left, passing the long reflecting pool, and moved toward the Vietnam Memorial. A few of his fellow veterans were selling POW tribute T-shirts with the faces of the still-missing plastered on them, along with the always-popular I Ain’t Fonda Jane bumper stickers. Naqui wished they could see that they were being held hostage themselves, by the past. He walked by a booth that was manned by an unkempt man with a long beard, who was wearing a Vietnam Vets are better in the Bush T-shirt. Naqui dropped a hundred dollar bill in the cup and said, “Good work soldier,” to which he received a lonely grin of stained teeth.

Naqui drifted into the sunken memorial. It was created for those whose lives ended in the thick jungles of Vietnam, but if truth be told, it was built to ease the turmoil of those who survived. The names of the fallen soldiers were carved into the marble. There were so many names—so much sacrifice—so much suffering. The memorial was built in the shape of a Bell Curve, the sidewalk gradually descending to the steepest point in the middle. Naqui reached the midpoint and stared upward at one specific name engraved into the black marble.

A familiar voice erupted from behind him. “Greg Ponson was a great man. It should’ve been me and not him,” Kerry Rutherford said in his deep baritone. Like Naqui, he wore a Polo shirt and shorts, but for incognito purposes, he wore dark sunglasses and a Washington Nationals baseball cap with an interlocking DC on the front. “He was my best friend.”

“I only knew him in his final moments,” Naqui said.

“Yet you seek out his name before those you knew much longer.”

“He was the first person to die in my arms. You never forget that.”

“You did everything you could, doc. If it weren’t for you saving my life, I’d be just another name carved on this wall. They say fate saved me, but I know it was you.”

“Are we still on the same side, Kerry?” Naqui got right to the point.

“We must pull out, Dash. If we are exposed, all the work we’ve done will be ruined and ridiculed. The legacies of our brave soldiers will be for naught, and they will die in vain.”

“The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract. It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced.”

Rutherford nodded his head, recognizing the familiar words. “Abraham Lincoln—a great patriot who understood sacrifice. People don’t talk like that anymore.”

“I used to think the same of you, Kerry, but now you sound a lot like a politician trying to cover his ass.”

Chapter 26

Rutherford simmered; nobody questioned his commitment. “I’m not the one who has been questioning his faith in his country,” he shot back in a loud whisper.

“Did you call me to meet so we could debate who the greater patriot is?”

“No, I called you here because Vietnam is where this started and now it’s where I’m going to end it. The mission has become too clouded by power struggles. Stipe even threatened me the other day.”

“You brought him in…”

“Your protégé, Dr. God, is no better. His only agenda is feeding his enormous ego. Not about sacrificing for the greater good like you and me, Dash.”

“Last I checked, there’s never been a problem from the medical side of things. Frankly, we’ve done brilliant work. Iran was caused by arrogant thugs like Stipe who were too busy feeding their Rambo-complexes and overlooked basic security.”

Rutherford didn’t like to be talked back to, whether it be a world leader or his good friend, Dash Naqui. “Stipe said if I discontinued our association, then Anesthesia’s services would be sold to a terrorist organization.”

Naqui said nothing. Rutherford searched deep into his friend’s complex eyes. He was convinced that a man like Dash Naqui couldn’t just turn off his love for his country like a faucet, even if doubt was starting to cloud his view. Rutherford was sure it was a bluff, but he knew now wasn’t the time to call him on it.

They had met in Vietnam on January 29, 1968, and not under the best of circumstances. It was the Vietnamese New Year, and a cease-fire was in place, which history would note as the reason the US was unprepared for the surprise attack by the North Vietnamese now famously known as the Tet Offensive. Provincial capitals were seized and the US embassy was invaded in Saigon. It became a media disaster for President Lyndon Johnson, and most believe it was the turning point in the war.

Kerry Rutherford was a young, brash marine intelligence officer working out of the US embassy in Saigon at the time of the Offensive. That was where he came in contact with his first suicide fighter. A concept that would shape his adult life. There were nineteen suicide fighters involved in the taking of the embassy. Rutherford was badly wounded and his best friend Greg Ponson was killed. Rutherford escaped death because of the heroic work of a young doctor named Dash Naqui.

They formed a special bond that turned into a lifetime of friendship. Naqui rose to become one of the world’s leading neurologists, while Rutherford climbed the ranks in the Defense Intelligence Agency.

Their other bond was an unmatched love for their country. It was the very reason why Rutherford reached out to Naqui after the Beirut bombings. He told his friend of the enemy he foresaw threatening the next generation of Americans—the suicide bomber. He also predicted that by the turn of the century, the only way to combat this enemy would be to develop a clandestine fighting force that could get behind enemy lines, boundaries that would be much more fluid than the traditional nation-state. And these soldiers would have to be able to endure unimaginable locations, along with being able to match the suicide bomber’s willingness to sacrifice their own lives.

The problem was that at that time the military was too focused on the Soviet Union, which Rutherford correctly predicted was a dinosaur on the brink of extinction. And intelligence agencies had been turned into government bureaucracies, no longer able to provide the undercover fortress of security they were intended to provide. Rutherford knew that to protect the nation, he would have to take the responsibility on his own shoulders.

Naqui had just returned from performing charity medical work in Thailand. He normally dealt with ailments like scurvy and cleft lips. But on this trip, he came across something he had never seen before. A young girl with a rare genetic mutation that impeded her ability to feel pain or sense temperature. It was an astonishing disorder called CIPA.

The wheels began to turn in Rutherford’s mind. If one couldn’t feel pain, then they would be fearless by nature. They could travel to places like the rugged terrain of mountainous Afghanistan without having to deal with the elements to which traditional soldiers would succumb. If they were to be captured and cultivated at a young age, then they would be free from a culture where sacrifice had become a dirty word. If captured by the enemy, no level of torture could harm them. It was perfect—fearless warriors that wouldn’t be stopped by pain or wicked temperatures or implausible terrain. They would fearlessly run toward the gun that could cause them no pain.

Rutherford brought on Franklin Stipe, a young marine working under him at the DIA, to be in charge of the recruiting and the military training. He set him up with a business called Stipe Security, which was to be used to funnel money from the DIA to Stipe under the veil of legitimate government contracts, so he could carry out his duties. Stipe then put together a team of ex-CIA and rogue bounty hunters to handle the recruiting and training.

Naqui was in charge of the medical training. His mission was to discover what those with CIPA could do, medically speaking. What were their limits, or did they have any? And what they accomplished was groundbreaking.

In 1991, just after Saddam Hussein invaded Kuwait, Rutherford called on Operation Anesthesia for the first time. The CIPA soldiers were sent into Iraq on intel missions. Because they operated as a private entity, they weren’t slaves to the same constrictions that the US military faced. Only those involved in Operation Anesthesia had knowledge of its existence, not even the US president or top military commanders. And while the history books would never tell their story, there was a good reason the war was over in less than a month, with so many targets easily eliminated—the US had Operation Anesthesia working covertly behind the enemy lines.

André Rose was the first Anesthesia soldier taken hostage, leaving the Iraqis dumbfounded at his ability to endure the pain of their torture tactics. They learned the hard way that pain only hurts when you can feel it. When the Iraqis eventually abandoned their post to run for their lives, André was rescued and returned to his family at Operation Anesthesia.

Until the Iran incident, almost three months ago, Operation Anesthesia had averted numerous terrorist acts and saved countless lives, all while remaining the most secret of secret societies. And because of its success, they always looked past the internal power-struggle of the military men—Stipe and his recruits—versus Naqui and his medical staff. Rutherford always served as the glue that held everything together. But now with his desire to discontinue Operation Anesthesia, the foundation grew shakier.

A long awkward silence developed between the old friends. “Maybe I overreacted,” Rutherford said, knowing full well he came off like a bureaucrat without any cards to play. “All I’m asking, Dash, is that everything remain low profile until the hearings pass. Then we can assess the future.”

Naqui continued drilling a hole into the memorial with his stare. “Do you even know the complete truth of what happened in Iran? Or are you more interested in plausible deniability these days, for when you testify before LaRoche’s congressional panel?”

“I only know Stipe’s version of events. Helicopter crashed in a sandstorm on the getaway. He and Jones escaped, but our boys were captured. Stipe played the role of courageous hero, of course.”

“Same tale he told me,” Naqui agreed. “It’s those still missing that I find most worrisome.”

“Maybe they were shot during the struggle, or died in the crash. Or, hell, the Iranians are always negotiating. Maybe they held a few to use as a negotiating ploy in the nuclear talks. They know the US always weakens in the knees at the sight of a hostage.” He returned his gaze to the engraving of Greg Ponson’s name, a tear dripping from under his sunglasses. “It worked in the Tet Offensive. The US media did a hatchet job on LBJ and he lost support.”

Naqui continued to stare lifelessly ahead. “What I find interesting is that André, Calvin, and Bronson Rose are the ones unaccounted for from the mission manifest. They are all brothers.”

Rutherford’s face puzzled. He dropped his shades down the bridge of his nose to get a good look at Naqui’s eyes. “Brothers?”

But the conversation was over. Naqui had already begun walking away.

Rutherford instinctively headed in the other direction. The memorial in front of them symbolized their past. Their opposite paths were symbolic of their current relationship.

Chapter 27

Monday morning, Billy joined the Whitcombs on a private jet that flew them to Raleigh-Durham International Airport in North Carolina. From there, they took a short helicopter ride and landed on the grounds of the Jordan Children’s Hospital in Durham.

With the helicopter blades still whipping in the background, they were met by Dr. Samuel Jordan. He was not only the lead physician, but had his name etched on the seventy-thousand-square-foot research and treatment hospital that served children with special needs, neurological disorders, and incurable diseases.

Samuel Jordan was lanky thin with sandy blond hair, looking much younger than his forty-eight years. He was what Carolyn would term as “shiny.” But he spoke with a gentle southern accent that gave him an “aw shucks” quality.

He greeted the Whitcombs with smiles and handshakes. He then turned his attention to Carolyn, whose sturdy barrette couldn’t keep her hair from blowing in the strong gusts of wind coming from the helicopter. She wore a pink cotton dress with a matching sling on her injured shoulder, although she kept removing the restrictive sling whenever the opportunity presented itself, much to her mother’s chagrin.

“And what is your name?” the doctor asked her over the whirring blades.

“Carolyn Whitcomb,” she shouted proudly.

“You look like a true southern belle, Carolyn Whitcomb.”

“Bells are on bikes, silly.”

“I stand corrected. But I must say that you don’t look like a Carolyn Whitcomb. You look like a princess. Would you mind if I called you princess?”

Carolyn’s face scrunched. “How did you know I was a princess?”

“Only a princess could radiate such delightful beauty.”

Carolyn giggled. “You talk funny.”

He laughed a charming laugh. “We do talk a little funny down here. You are quite observant. Did you enjoy your ride on the airplane?”

She bubbled with excitement. “It was coo’!”

Carolyn then extended her arms straight out to her sides like she had wings, and began running in circles, joyously making airplane sounds and laughing unapologetically.

The diagnosis had provided Beth with some relief, but it also had raised her over-protectiveness to Defcom-2 level. “Carolyn, be careful!” she yelled to her.

Dr. Jordan gently placed his hand on her shoulder. “Beth, we are not dealing with CIPA patients, but rather, CIPA children. During your visit I will provide you and Chuck with a plan to both keep her safe and allow her to be a normal child.”

Beth’s eyes welled with relief—Carolyn was in good hands. They caught up to Carolyn, still doing her airplane imitation, and headed for the front entrance.

“If you found the airplane coo’, Carolyn, then the helicopter ride must have been totally awesome,” Dr. Jordan said, matching Carolyn’s enthusiasm.

“Between you and me, I thought it was a little loud.”

He laughed. “We will try to work on that.”

Jordan Children’s Hospital didn’t look like a typical sterile hospital. It consisted of two ultra-modern looking pavilions connected by a glass atrium. Its bright orange and blue colors gave it a Caribbean feel.

Dr. Jordan opened the glass door for Billy and the Whitcombs to enter. But Carolyn stood frozen.

“What’s wrong, princess?” Dr. Jordan asked with a calm voice. Billy got the idea that this wasn’t his first experience with stage fright.

“I don’t like hospitals.”

“Well, this isn’t a hospital.”

Carolyn looked skeptical. “It isn’t?”

“No, this is a children’s hospital. Much different. It’s like a fun house where every little boy and girl who has a frown, we turn upside down.”

She remained a skeptic. “You promise?”

“You are much too smart to fool.”

She shrugged. “I do like fun houses.”

He effortlessly won her over, and she agreed to enter. The interior had similar bright pastel color schemes. Rooms were built in unique shapes—octagons and such—and the lobby was circular. Much of the furniture and apparatus was scaled to a child’s size, and paintings hung close to the ground, at eye level for the children. Billy noticed that it was the opposite of Peanut Butter & Jelly, which he drew to the scale of how children see the grownup world.

Colorful plastic toys were prevalent in the lobby, and the speakers blasted the energetic theme song from The Muppets, which Billy remembered from his own youth. The feel was playful.

“I think I might like a children’s hospital!” Carolyn blurted.

Children greeted Dr. Jordan with the reverence kids usually reserve for Dora the Explorer. He charmed each one of them individually, knowing each child’s name and some personal item about them.

The first order of business was to get fitted for ID badges. In anticipation of her photo, Dr. Jordan found a cardboard crown that looked like something one might get at Burger King, and placed it on Carolyn’s head. “A princess must have her crown,” he said.

Carolyn flashed her big toothless smile for the camera. She then compared mug shots with Billy, who helped her pin the ID badge on her dress. She noticed a logo on the badge of the security company where two S’s were squiggled vertically, surrounded by a circle. They looked like…

“Ewe…snakes,” Carolyn squealed.

After a quick tour of the Disney World of hospitals, they congregated in Jordan’s office. He went over his bio, including that he was a professor of pediatrics and neurology at Duke Medical in his “spare” time. He boasted that he was the world’s leading expert in CIPA, but then quickly joked that it wasn’t bragging, since he was possibly the only CIPA expert in the world. He had a comforting way about him, which was most beneficial to Beth. He squelched any idea that Carolyn might be used for scientific experimentation, and had already taken the liberty of contacting Little Brook Nursery School to lobby on Carolyn’s behalf. After he explained her situation, she was granted permission to return, if desired.

Dr. Jordan and Carolyn then went off for her comprehensive examination, which tested Beth’s separation anxiety. Three hours later, they reconvened in Jordan’s office. Carolyn bounced in, all smiles, wearing a miniature version of the white lab coat worn by Dr. Jordan.

Chuck scooped her into his arms, “How you doing, princess?”

She bubbled with excitement. “I like children’s hospitals!”

He couldn’t hold back his laughter as he set his fickle daughter down. The tension convention of the past week had turned lighthearted. Black clouds had been pushed away by the blue skies.

A stethoscope hung around Carolyn’s neck and she held a blood pressure monitor in her non-sling hand. She ran to Beth, wrapped the Velcro blood pressure cuff around her arm, and began aggressively pumping. She then informed her mother, “You’re a little high, maybe you should meet me in my office in two weeks to check you out.”

Everyone laughed, even Beth. But Billy didn’t doubt the last few weeks had left them all with high blood pressure.

Then Carolyn announced, “When I grow up, I’m gonna be a doctor and work at a children’s hospital!”

“You told me you wanted to be a firefighter. In politics they would call you a flip flopper,” Beth replied.

“I thought you were going to be a hockey player?” Chuck added.

“I thought you were going to be a newspaper writer?” Billy played along.

Carolyn sighed dramatically. “Can’t a girl change her mind?”

She had no use for the adults who were trying to drag her down, and seamlessly transitioned into a tangent that summarized the last couple hours she’d spent with Dr. Jordan. It included two other CIPA kids she met at the facility. Nadav from Israel and Hideo from Japan. “They are just like me!” she announced with joy. Just like her—they couldn’t feel pain. Still hard to believe.

Dr. Jordan confirmed the diagnosis from Yale, using layman’s terms so all could understand. The doctor then showed a video that painted both an optimistic and not so rosy look at CIPA. First up was a young boy from the Philippines who was diagnosed with CIPA at six months old. He was now twenty-two with fractured bones, severe bite wounds, and lost an estimated twenty pounds each summer due to heat exhaustion. He spent his days in a wheelchair and was emotionally like a child. Everyone watched in horror as the boy on the video rubbed his nose raw and struggled to speak without a tongue.

Billy noticed the hopeless look on Beth’s face, probably visualizing a similar fate for Carolyn. Chuck must have noticed the same thing and put his arm around her.

The good, yet still a work in progress scenario, was a little five-year-old girl from a small town in Florida who had been featured in a television news story.

While the little girl bounced around, her mother was interviewed. In a sweet voice she talked of how they knew something was wrong, but couldn’t put their finger on it, and of course, never would have thought in a million years such an ailment even existed. She told a wild story about how her daughter had come into the house one time complaining that she couldn’t get dirt off her arm, but her arm was actually covered by fire-eating ants she never felt. She described the delicate balance between protection and over-protection, including how they were initially so paranoid they made her wear a helmet, but eventually learned to loosen the reigns.

Billy noticed a certain comfort come over Beth. In the end, it wasn’t the diagnosis at Yale, the confirmation by one of the world’s leading pediatric neurologists, or even the support of Chuck and her family that gave Beth a sense of peace. It took the testimonial of another mother.

When the video ended, Carolyn said, “She seems nice,” referring to the girl. “Can I play with her?”

Dr. Jordan patted her on the head. “She lives far away, princess. I’m afraid I won’t be able to meet that request.”

Carolyn’s face slumped.

“But I know what we can do,” Jordan said. “What do you say you and your guests join me at my home for dinner tonight?”

Carolyn’s face perked up and immediately looked hopefully toward Beth, “Can we, Mommy?”

“I don’t know, Carolyn, I’m sure Dr. Jordan is a very busy man and we’ve taken up too much of his time already.”

“I insist,” Jordan said, closing the deal with his smile.

“Do you haff steaks?” Carolyn asked with building excitement.

“I sure do.”

“Do you haff strawberry milk?”

“You’re wish is my command, princess.”

“Then what are we waiting for? I’m starving!”

Chapter 28

They drove out of the hospital in Dr. Jordan’s spacious Cadillac Escalade Hybrid.

Their first stop was Duke University. The doctor had to pick up a few files from his office at the medical school, so Billy and the Whitcombs took advantage to stretch their legs. Beth purchased Carolyn a royal blue sweatshirt with white trim, the Duke school colors. As night grew closer, they hoped the sweatshirt would combat the falling temperatures that Carolyn wouldn’t feel or detect. Chuck mentioned to Billy that he could take advantage of the downtime to drop by Kaylee Scroggins’ dorm room, which received a glare from Beth.

When Jordan returned, they made the hour-long ride to the doctor’s home. The vehicle contained all the amenities: leather upholstery, DVD player, and a built-in car seat for Carolyn with attached video games. On the way, Jordan called in the dinner order to someone he referred to as Miss Rose. The menu would include steaks, corn on the cob, and peach cobbler for dessert. To Carolyn’s satisfaction, there would be strawberry milk to drink.

They arrived in Clarksville, a small, pace-slowed-to-a-crawl town, located just over the border on the southern tip of Virginia. It bordered Virginia’s largest lake—Buggs Island Lake—a fifty thousand acre body of water that was created when the Staunton and Roanoke Rivers were dammed. The town attracted numerous boaters and outdoorsman, but according to Dr. Jordan, Clarksville’s true appeal was that it allowed him to meld into the woodsy background and gain some peace and solace after a day of saving the world’s children.

The Escalade passed through an electronic security gate and rambled down a long driveway, lined with oak trees. They passed exquisite gardens, before arriving in front of an eye-opening, gable-roofed Georgian-style mansion built of sturdy limestone. Billy felt like they’d traveled back in time.

“Welcome to Jordan Plantation,” the doctor announced.

“You live in a castle—are you a king?” Carolyn exulted.

Jordan chuckled lightly. “No, but I am a sixth generation relation to Sir Quincy Jordan who built this plantation in 1787. Quincy was third generation from my namesake, Samuel Jordan, who immigrated to Middlesex County, Virginia, during the rule of Oliver Cromwell. The Jordans were one of the principal cavalier families of Virginia.”

Jordan went on to explain that his family had actually sold the plantation in the early 1900s, following decades of decline following the Civil War. It changed hands numerous times, including being purchased once by a famed horse trainer to raise thoroughbreds. But by the time the early 1980s rolled around, it had been deserted and left to die.

Jordan then surprised them when he mentioned that he didn’t have the same lavish upbringing as his ancestors, and was actually raised by a single mother in a dingy, one-bedroom apartment in Winston-Salem. According to Jordan, like the plantation, the Jordan family never recovered financially after the Civil War. So when he began to make money following medical school, he risked his savings to rescue the dilapidated family heirloom and build it back to the prominence he felt it deserved.

He described the heyday of the plantation with reverence, “At its peak, Jordan Plantation had ten thousand acres and approximately eight hundred slaves living and working on it. It was practically a city in and of itself, and was completely self-reliant. These days we have only about five hundred acres.”

“Only, eh?” Chuck quipped.

“What are slaves?” Carolyn asked.

“Slaves were a sad period in history that most Americans wish never happened. Have you ever done something you are not proud of?” Jordan asked Carolyn with the trained calm of a man who works with children.

Carolyn stuck out her healing, but still very mangled tongue. “The whole Dracula joke wasn’t my best move,” she conceded.

Everybody nodded in agreement. There was a certain relief to know there was a logical reason for her behavior.

Jordan took them around to a side entrance of the manor house. They moved down a musty stairwell and entered via an English basement. Jordan pointed out that it had been restored to the original eight-foot ceilings, which gave the illusion Chuck would scrape his head.

They walked up creaky stairs into the main part of the house and were greeted by a large oil painting of Sir Quincy, dating back to the 18th century. He did have a certain resemblance to Dr. Jordan, Billy observed.

They passed into a spacious room Jordan referred to as the saloon. Billy was impressed with the magnificent block-print wallpaper that filled the walls like a mural, depicting a French countryside. Jordan proudly went on about spending the last twenty-plus years restoring the manor house to the look and décor from when Sir Quincy first built it over two hundred years ago, including the English craftsmanship of the furniture and woodwork. The interior woods had been returned to their original pine and oak.

Antsy with the history lesson, Carolyn made a mad dash up the grand staircase that dominated the room. Built for the smaller human species of the 18th century, the steps were closer together, making it “kid-friendly.”

“Carolyn, wait!” Beth shrieked.

Jordan remained calm. Cool as a cucumber. “Remember what I said about letting her be a child, Beth. She’s just playing. We’ve kept her cooped up all day. Carolyn needs to spread her wings.”

Beth wasn’t listening. “Carolyn—get down here now!”

Carolyn reached the top, pirouetted to face the adults, and flashed her toothless grin. “Look Billy, I’m a bee—watch me fly.”

“Nooo!” everybody yelled in unison. It was like the sequel to a horror movie.

She flashed a “gotchya” grin and belted out, “I’m just kidding!”

Nobody laughed.

Once they talked Carolyn off the ledge, literally, the tour moved to the plantation grounds. Jordan took them to his favorite spot on the five hundred acres, which featured an idyllic, sloping view of the lake. The powerful sun had almost sunk completely into the lake, and dusk was starting to take effect. It was almost firefly time.

Carolyn began to run across the park-like lawns, again to Beth’s disapproval. But Dr. Jordan once more encouraged the behavior. “Think of her as a kite whimsically blowing in the wind. Hold on to the cord, Beth, but not so tight it impedes the freedom for which she flies.”

Beth actually gave in, causing Billy to exchange a head nod with Chuck, as if to admiringly say, “Oh, he’s good.”

The tour continued through the old slave quarters, a loom house, and a large horse-stall remaining from what Jordan described as an “ill-conceived” plan to turn the plantation into a breeding center for thoroughbred horses.

They then came across a triangular-shaped farmhouse with an inviting Federal-era style porch. Jordan’s tone turned apologetic, announcing, “This is the Plantation Office. If you don’t mind, I just need a moment to check in with Mr. Jones. He is in charge of running the day-to-day operations of the plantation. Then we can go see if Miss Rose has finished completing our scrumptious meal.”

Lounging behind a cluttered desk with his feet up, was a man Jordan introduced as Mitchell Jones. He wore a sleeveless denim jacket, showing off bare arms that were so inked with tattoos they reminded Billy of the block-print wallpaper in the saloon. His hair was in a ponytail, and had a long, graying beard to match, which he also kept in a ponytail, Captain Lou Albano style.

Upon the sight of the dapper doctor, he took a puff on the cigarette he was chomping on, and irreverently barked, “What can I do ya for, Sammy?”

Jordan seemed irritated by the sight of the man, but maintained his cool exterior. Billy immediately found their relationship odd. He was sure the slaves didn’t talk to Sir Quincy the way Mr. Jones talked to Sir Samuel.

“Who’s this?” Jones asked, pointing his smoldering cigarette in Carolyn’s direction.

“This is Carolyn Whitcomb and her family. They are special guests of mine,” Jordan replied enthusiastically.

Jones took another puff. The office reeked of cigarettes. “Oh, yeah—you’re the one with the CIPA. Why don’t you let me put my cigarette on you to make sure you really got it?”

Before Beth could pull out the hairs of his beard, one by one, he snorted a laugh. “I’m only messin’ with ya.”

Chuck looked like he might be thinking of dusting off his goony skills to protect Carolyn’s honor. But a defusing look from Beth calmed him.

Billy found the man’s knowledge of the rare disorder curious. But Jordan was supposedly the world’s leading expert on the subject, so perhaps it was the norm to entertain a CIPA kid.

Carolyn locked a frozen glare on Jones. Realizing she was out of sorts, Billy kneeled beside her and asked, “Are you okay?”

She pointed at Jones and exclaimed, “That’s Osama Banana!”

Mitchell Jones hadn’t made a great first impression on the Whitcombs, but they wouldn’t tolerate rude behavior from Carolyn. “That’s not nice, Carolyn,” Chuck scolded.

“Please apologize to Mr. Jones,” Beth instructed.

But she continued to stare at him like the little girl in Poltergeist stared into the television. They’re here!

Then she turned frantic. “No, Mom, it’s Osama Banana! Do something!”

Jordan tried to soothe the situation. “I try to get Mr. Jones to cut his beard all the time. I can only hope that being mistaken for such a dastardly terror-monger is the wake-up call he needs to change his grooming habits. And if that doesn’t register, then I don’t know what will.”

Jones smiled wickedly, exposing cigarette-stained teeth. “You got a great imagination, kid. Especially the part how you thought your mother could somehow disarm the world’s most notorious terrorist.”

“Maybe she couldn’t...but I could,” Chuck said with an icy glare. Nobody threatened to put their cigarette out on his little girl without a fight.

After a brief macho stare-down, Jordan again played peacemaker. With a heavy hint, he theatrically announced how hungry he was and suggested they check on the progress of Miss Rose’s feast. Nobody argued.

After leaving the Plantation Office, Jordan apologized for Jones’s behavior, describing him as an old family friend who was superb at running the plantation, but added, “Unfortunately his people skills are, to say the least, lacking.”

They reentered the manor house through the English basement. Billy noticed that Carolyn’s disposition had taken a turn for the worse. Beth also noticed, mentioning that she had had “a long day” and needed a “nap.” Carolyn didn’t say anything, which was strange, since she usually saw a nap as a threat worthy of fighting to the death.

Billy knew something was wrong.

Chapter 29

The meal would be delayed. Waiting for Jordan inside the manor house was another visitor. In contrast to Jones, this man was neatly attired in business casual and sporting a graying crew cut. He appeared to have lost a fight with a tanning bed, sun blisters scarring his face.

Jordan looked surprised by the man’s presence, but recovered without missing a beat, pleasantly greeting him, “Franklin—to what do I owe such a pleasure?”

“I didn’t mean to interrupt your dinner, but I was in the area and wanted to check the camera in section six. I also hear you have a new employee here on the grounds and I’d like to fit him with his security clearance.”

Jordan turned to the Whitcombs. “This is Mr. Franklin Stipe of Stipe Security. He runs our security system here at the plantation. He does such a fine job that I also hired him for the security at the hospital.”

Stipe affably greeted them with a shake of his calloused hand. “I won’t be long. I just have to meet with Dr. Jordan for a few minutes on some issues. Then you folks can have your dinner.”

Billy noticed a similar dismayed look on Carolyn’s face as when she met Jones, and not just because this intrusion was holding up dinner. Stipe took special notice of the girl, kneeling down to match her height. “And who do we have here?”

Jordan interjected, “This is Princess Carolyn Whitcomb from Connecticut. She is a guest of mine. She’s one of the lucky few to have Congenital Insensitivity Pain with Anhidrosis.”

Stipe forcefully pinched her arm, which got no reaction from Carolyn. “Sometimes I wish I didn’t feel any pain,” he said, also aware the symptoms of CIPA. It might’ve been rare in the outside world, but was common knowledge at the plantation.

“You are a pretty little thing. And I guess if you are going to go to Duke, then you also must be one smart girl,” Stipe said, noticing her sweatshirt.

Carolyn stood frozen in silent-statue mode.

Beth didn’t approve of her daughter’s behavior. “What do you say, Carolyn?”

She remained a stoic glacier.

“Carolyn—what do you say?” Beth’s tone firmed.

She stood frozen for another moment, and then blurted at Stipe, “You should wear sunblock—the ubee rays got you!”

Beth was infuriated, but Jordan stepped in. “The princess has had a tedious day, Mr. Stipe,” he defused, before turning his attention to Carolyn, “I will just be a few minutes, princess, and then we will have some steaks and strawberry milk, I promise. And as a doctor, I concur with your diagnosis, Mr. Stipe should wear sunblock.”

The two men disappeared into Sir Quincy’s former bedchamber. Jordan had mentioned that the room had been converted into an office at the end of Sir Quincy’s life so he could “conduct business” while he was bedridden, dying of scarlet fever. As a tribute, Jordan used it as his home office.

The moment the heavy door shut behind the men, Beth began the lecture. “Young lady, when someone talks to you, you answer them. You treat people the way you want to be treated. What do you have to say for yourself?”

“Dragons are here,” she said.

“Carolyn!”

“Dragons!”

Chuck picked her up, attempting to be the good cop. “That’s not very nice, princess.”

Billy examined her face. He’d always been impressed at how well thought-out she was at such a young age. If she were hungry, tired, or just being a bratty four-year-old, then it would’ve manifested into an outpouring of drama and emotion, all building to an inevitable temper tantrum. The coldness was different. He didn’t know what to make of it, but something wasn’t right.

Fifteen minutes later, Jordan returned without Stipe. He led them to an elegant dining room with similar block-print wallpaper as the saloon, but this one featuring a nature design, filled with garden greenery and floating leaves. Hanging over the long table was a large triangular object that looked like the blade of a guillotine.

“It’s a fan,” Jordan said, noticing their strange looks. “In the 18th and early 19th century, two slaves would stand by the dinner table and adjust the wires to fan Sir Quincy and his esteemed guests.”

On cue, a plump woman entered, carrying shiny stainless-steel dishes piled with mouthwatering food. Her silver hair was grandmotherly, but her mocha skin was baby smooth like she just arrived from an Ivory Soap commercial, giving her a youthful glow. Billy’s best guesstimate was that she was in her fifties.

Steam seeped off the dishes and the smell of steak filled the room, to the delight of all. Except Carolyn, who remained out of sorts and uncooperative.

“This is Miss Rose, the best cook in the great state of Virginia, and that’s a modest review of her talents,” Jordan exulted.

She flashed a genial smile as she poured sweet tea for the adults, and actually evoked a reaction from Carolyn. No small task in her current state.

“You are named after a flower, Miss Rose,” Carolyn said.

“You are as pretty as a flower, darling,” Miss Rose replied in a motherly tone and handed her a glass of strawberry milk.

But Carolyn’s smile left with Miss Rose’s departure. She then further infuriated her mother by choosing to hide under the table. Beth again apologized to Jordan for her behavior, but he reminded her that she has been through a lot over the last few weeks, and if she was happy hiding from the dragons under the table, then it was okay with him.

Midway through dinner, Jordan took another sip of his sweet tea and turned to Billy, “So what do you do, Mr. Harper?”

Billy told him of his writing and how he’d come to know Carolyn and the Whitcombs, including their “shelter for babysitting” arrangement. He kept it vague, not revealing any of the painful past that led him to the cottage. He then mentioned his plan to write an article on Carolyn and CIPA for the Shoreline Times.

Jordan’s face became unnerved. “I would be very careful about bringing attention to Carolyn and her condition.”

“And why is that?”

“I’ve worked with a lot of these children. Their calling is unique, which has led to certain groups believing that CIPA kids are children of the messiah. There have been kidnap attempts.

“But it’s not just those searching recklessly for new gods,” he continued. “Radical science has also posed a threat. An estimated fifty million people suffer from chronic pain, and there are those who think studying someone with Carolyn’s unique genetic situation will allow them to find cures for pain. In other words, turn them into guinea pigs for science.”

Then probably noticing the fear on Beth’s face, he softened his rhetoric, “I don’t mean to be an alarmist, these are very rare instances. But I think it’s always better to be safe than sorry. So I’d be very careful of spurring on any excessive attention.”

Miss Rose returned with wine goblets filled with fluffy chocolate mousse for dessert, along with plates of peach cobbler. She delivered Carolyn’s under the table, again receiving a brief smile.

During dessert, Jordan outlined a plan for going forward, “so she can balance a normal life and safety,” including things they need to watch for, and what are the best choices for the joints.

When the meal came to an end, Jordan called on Mitchell Jones to drive Billy and the Whitcombs to the airport. This time Jones seemed more eager to perform his boss’s wishes. Beth apologized to Jones for Carolyn’s behavior, which he deflected, declaring that all kids are “pains in the ass.”

As they followed Jones’s trail of cigarette smell toward his vehicle, Billy held Carolyn’s hand.

“Dragons,” he heard her whisper to herself.

Chapter 30

The phone call came in to his Ridgewood, New Jersey, home just before ten in the evening.

“We have another potential recruit,” declared the voice on the other end.

Naqui smiled at the shaking Claire to indicate he would be back by her side in a matter of moments, then took the cordless into the next room. “Give me the details,” he said, now standing in his private library.

“Four years old, female, from the United States, and seems to have a fetish for strawberry milk.”

“And you’ve seen her?”

“Had them over for dinner tonight. Jones is driving them back to the airport as we speak,” Jordan gushed boastfully

“Isn’t that risky?”

“Unlike Hasenfus, or whatever he’s calling himself these days, I don’t bypass the details,” Jordan said, never using Stipe’s real name over the phone. “All the members were locked away in the ‘security room’ prior to their visit. Speaking of which, I don’t appreciate it when he shows up unannounced while I’m entertaining, as he did tonight.”

This didn’t alleviate any of Naqui’s fears. He couldn’t shake the feeling that Rutherford was right. Operation Anesthesia was a house of cards built on a foundation eroded by arrogance, unchecked egos, and personal agendas. But tonight was not the night to address that. He had a more important issue waiting for him in the next room. He needed to get back to her. “Do you expect any issues with this girl?”

“A friend of the family writes for some local nothing paper in their hometown.”

“Publicity is bad. We never could touch that girl in Georgia when her story went national.”

“I wouldn’t expect the same here. The press is too interested in hanging the president over his response to Iran. No need for any human-interest filler stories right now.”

Naqui fell into a trance, thinking about the brilliant young doctor who interned for him years ago. For Naqui, it was love at first sight. Not the kind of love found at the end of Cupid’s arrow, but he fell in love with the many doors Jordan’s brilliance could open for Operation Anesthesia. It was probably reckless to involve him in Anesthesia, but love will make people do crazy things.

Naqui couldn’t deny that Jordan’s brilliance had taken Operation Anesthesia to heights he never dreamed of. And his hidden plantation provided the perfect canvas for their masterpiece. It also allowed Naqui to delegate the medical research and concentrate on running Operation Anesthesia as the Chief Managing Partner, the CMP.

But Jordan’s motives were different than his own. It wasn’t about the greater good with Jordan. It was about an ego so large that no amount of riches could fill it. Jordan was born with a God-complex, and science and God were often a toxic mix. Naqui had brushed off such thoughts for years, but now worried that such a mix would end up contributing to their downfall. But tonight he had bigger priorities.

Naqui searched for the resolve he re-found in Washington, and located Lincoln’s words. Unfinished business. So their deaths are not in vain.

“Give it a few days and then send in Hasenfus and his squad to pick up the girl,” Naqui said. He hung up the phone and returned to Claire.

Chapter 31

Billy and the Whitcombs returned to New Canaan on Tuesday, the capital of reality. Chuck went back to work, Beth back to school, and Billy returned to his writing and babysitting duties.

Billy was juggling two articles. One was about a pumpkin patch near Waverly Park that was preparing for Halloween, only a month away. The other, back by popular demand, was the continuing saga of the girl quarterback at New Canaan High. It was the week of her first game, so Billy and Carolyn spent their afternoons hanging around at high school football practice.

It was the first time Billy had spent any significant time on a football field since he left college, and he was flooded with memories. As with most things in his life, they were mixed. He could still hear Coach Blake cursing encouragement his way. One of Coach’s favorite sayings was, “No pain no gain!” When Billy looked at Carolyn, who was tossing around a football with her non-sling arm, it put a whole new spin on the statement.

Billy was still surprised that the Whitcombs continued to entrust him with their daughter. He’d made a lot of deposits into the goodwill bank since his arrival, but knew when they learned the details of “the incident” there wouldn’t be enough overdraft protection on the planet to keep him from getting tossed out on his ass. Dana must not have told them. He didn’t know why, but in turn, he kept any discussions of black market baby sales to himself.

And while there was relief following the Carolyn diagnosis, it wasn’t all laughs and giggles. A strange vibe had been hovering since they returned. Hugs were tighter and “I love yous” more freely distributed. But at the same time, it was like nobody wanted to talk about the situation and they were internalizing it.

Then at Thursday night dinner, Carolyn reached her arm out toward Billy and ordered, “Squeeze my hand.”

When he applied light pressure on her hand, she screamed like she’d been shot. She then fell to the floor, writhing, and yelling, “Ouch! My hand! Oh my gosh, it hurts so bad!”

Bewildered looks shot toward her. When she was satisfied with the response, she let out a deep belly laugh. “Gotchya!”

Everybody lost it. Emotions drained in the form of both laughter and tears. Then for the first time, they really talked about the ordeal. And when they had fully digested what faced them, they were finally able to focus their thoughts toward the future, including Carolyn’s triumphant return to school, and whether she would be a firefighter or a hockey player for Halloween. She seemed to have lost interest in being a doctor.

On the first Monday in October, Carolyn Whitcomb returned to Little Brook Nursery School. Beth fussed over her like it was her true first day of school. She had bought her a new dress, but Carolyn was determined to show off her new Duke sweatshirt. Another point of contention was the sling Carolyn was forced to wear—since she felt no pain, she didn’t understand its value. After agreeing to hold off their mother/daughter fights until Carolyn was a teenager, Beth slipped the royal blue sweatshirt over her head and clipped a barrette to her un-cooperating hair. But before they could go, Chuck had to step in to end a hug after Carolyn flashed a petrified “Mom’s squishing the life out of me” look over Beth’s shoulder.

Billy drove her to school in the Cherokee. He had also gained permission to observe the class in preparation for his upcoming article. The article was not without controversy, but not from the school. The Yeas—Chuck, Billy, and Carolyn, had outvoted the Nays—Beth and Dr. Jordan. The Nays worried that publicity would attract the zealot groups Jordan warned of and Carolyn’s safety would be put at risk. The Yeas thought a story in the local paper would help educate the community on Carolyn’s situation, and put to rest any crazy rumors, including hurtful ones about self-mutilation. She could then assimilate into a “normal” life without feeling like a freak.

She looked like every other student, carrying her Elmo lunchbox in hand. Her My Little Pony backpack was strapped to her back, bouncing with each of her eager struts. As they neared the school’s front entrance, Carolyn turned to Billy and said, “Wouldn’t it be funny if I pretended to do the Dracula joke again and then did a ‘gotchya’ like the other night at dinner?”

“Carolyn?”

“Yes.”

“You have an amazing imagination and a great personality. But perhaps it might be a good idea to tone it down on your first day back.”

She shrugged. “It was just an idea.”

Ms. Stevens, who looked nothing like the troll-like teachers Billy had growing up in Johnstown, welcomed Carolyn back with open arms. So did the students—even the ones whose simple-minded parents tried to keep her from returning.

The only noticeable change in the classroom was that all students were given a water bottle at their workstations. This was to combat Carolyn’s overheating, and by giving one to each student, it provided a sense of normalcy for the entire class. Then at lunch, a teacher was assigned to test her food, to make sure it was cool enough for her to eat.

Recess was the biggest challenge. They had to find a balance between letting Carolyn bounce around like the fearless four-year-old she was, and protecting her. She was particularly upset that she wasn’t allowed on the monkey bars. After recess, she was escorted straight to the nurse’s office for a pit stop. Carolyn would have three scheduled trips to the nurse’s office each day.

On Friday, television cameras came to the school. A show called Good Morning New York was doing a feature on the painless girl. It was set up by Dana, as a way to promote Billy’s article, hoping the positive attention would help the sale of his book. It was supposed to be a feature story for the Saturday morning show that included an interview with Chuck and Beth. But it was cut down to thirty seconds and marginalized to a cutesy clip to end the show, bumped by wall-to-wall coverage of the still-simmering relations between the US and Iran over the hostages.

The article came out in the Shoreline Times on Sunday morning. Chuck read the article at the breakfast table.

Wouldn’t it be great if you couldn’t feel pain? No daily aches and pains. No headaches or stomachaches, and your head wouldn’t even sting when you eat ice cream too fast. If you think such a scenario is too good to be true, then you would be in agreement with Carolyn Whitcomb’s parents.

“I would give anything for my daughter to feel pain,” said Beth Whitcomb. What Mrs. Whitcomb is referring to is that her daughter has a genetic disorder called Congenital Insensitivity to Pain with Anhidrosis, or CIPA for short. While it is estimated that over 50 million people suffer from chronic pain, Carolyn Whitcomb isn’t one of them. So why is this a bad thing…

That night was “movie night” in the Whitcomb house. Billy begged off, but Carolyn was resilient.

“I have to do some writing tonight, but thanks for the offer,” he tried to fight her off.

“If you had something better to do, then you’d be doing it, eh?” Chuck interjected.

Billy smiled. “Just because you have to spend your Sunday night watching Beauty and the Beast doesn’t mean you’re going to bring me down with you.”

“We’re gonna make popcorn,” Carolyn made a counter-offer.

“I don’t know,” Billy wavered, giving her the opening she sought.

“And chocolate covered raisins!”

“I…umm…”

“There’s gonna be lots of butter on the popcorn!”

He felt like the Washington Generals playing the Globetrotters. He was soon parked on the couch beside a bowl containing her fish, Puck, who according to Carolyn always attended movie night. As for the movie choice, Beth pushed for Stuart Little, but Carolyn again won out in the negotiations—Slap Shot it was.

She had memorized every line of the movie, and even put her hands over her ears in preparation for the “bad” words. She cheered the Hanson Brothers and Paul Newman’s character, Reggie Dunlop, at every opportunity. And she sang along to the theme song, Maxine Nightingale’s 1970s disco hit, “Get Back To Where We Started From.”

Billy and Carolyn swapped the popcorn and the candy raisins throughout the movie. Finally Beth scolded, “Carolyn—I told you no more. Don’t come crying to me when you get a stomachache.”

Nobody caught the comment at first. Chuck was the first to catch on and began to laugh, Billy followed. She couldn’t get a stomachache if she ate a bushel of popcorn!

As the room crackled with laughter, Billy felt like spring had arrived, de-thawing his winter ice. A girl who couldn’t feel pain had helped him to feel again.

Chapter 32

Following the movies, Carolyn slipped off to sleep, and Billy returned to the cottage. The second they were gone, Chuck wrapped Beth into his big arms. They hadn’t been alone in forever.

They kissed on the couch like two horny teenagers. They were back in that small apartment in Albany. There were no worries back then—no Carolyn—and definitely no Congenital Insensitivity to Pain with Anhidrosis.

They rose up, knocking over an end table, hoping they didn’t wake Carolyn. Even though she was tucked away in her room, and her projected ETA to slip into their bed was still an hour from now, it wouldn’t be the first time she’d interrupted them at the wrong moment. They kept their voices down the best they could—waking her was not an option.

They rushed into the master bedroom. Even though the barn house was situated in the middle of the woods, Beth’s first move was to shut all the curtains. When she finished, Chuck playfully tossed her on the bed and climbed on top. Their bodies entangled as they kissed.

Chuck took the initiative of removing his own shirt. But Beth always liked her man to undress her. The first obstacle was her sweater, and then he started working on the bra.

That’s when he thought he heard a noise. He dismissed it, figuring it was just one of the squirrels nestled in the trees outside their bedroom windows. It came from outside, so it wasn’t Carolyn, although, they had caught her out on midnight excursions before, hunting fireflies.

Chuck’s momentary stoppage frustrated Beth. She looked at him with longing. Unless Carolyn was about to perform another swan dive off a steep staircase, she wasn’t going to lose her focus. She physically pulled Chuck back on top of her.

They worked as a team to remove her jeans. She maneuvered to give him the best leverage, and then swirled her hips in the other direction so he could get the other side down. They had already made it over her hips and down to her ankles, when they realized she hadn’t removed her shoes. Chuck hopped off the bed and yanked off her boots. The path had been cleared and the pants flew off. They couldn’t help but to smile at each other, but knew they were on the clock, so they quickly rolled back onto the bed into takeoff position.

That’s when Chuck heard the noise again, this time louder. It was coming from right outside the window closest to their bed. There was no denying it this time.

He made eye contact with Beth—she’d heard it too. She strained her neck up from her lying position to get a look at the window. After the last couple months, they were ready for anything, and it definitely wasn’t a squirrel.

Chuck’s arm shot up to the long drapes behind the headboard, and in one motion, ripped them open. He immediately jumped back.

Peering in the window were two bright white eyes that glowed in the dark. It was a man! His face was dark—either it was a black man or he had camouflaged his face. There was a silent moment as if the world had frozen. Then Beth broke it with a scream, causing the intruder to run.

Chuck ran shirtless out of the bedroom, into the room where he stored his hunting rifles. He opened the glass case and pulled out his high-powered M1 Carbine. He then searched for the keys for the desk drawer where the ammo was stored. Beth had made him secure it like Ft. Knox. Once found, he opened the drawer and pulled out a .30-06 cartridge, which he expertly loaded into the gun.

He ran through the living room area, toward a side door. Beth cut him off at the pass, pleading, “Please—no—Chuck.”

He wasn’t listening, so she cut her losses, begging him to be careful.

He nodded that he would as he bolted out of the house. It didn’t take him long to spot the intruder about halfway down the driveway, surrounded by nothing but a still night. He didn’t know the exact laws about shooting an intruder in the back, but he didn’t care. This man violated his family, and now he was going to violate a few of his vital organs.

He sized the intruder in the scope, and fired. Then fired again. He was sure he connected in his upper back or lower shoulder area. But the man kept running without a flinch, probably fueled by adrenaline. Within seconds he was gone.

Chapter 33

Morning came without resolution. The police had searched the Whitcombs’ property and combed the neighborhood with their scent-sniffing dogs, but found nothing. The Whitcombs were told there was a Peeping Tom reported in the area who matched the description of the intruder. Beth wasn’t buying it. She was convinced it was related to the warnings Dr. Jordan gave them, and the intruder was after Carolyn.

They did have some clues to go on. From her awkward, upside down position on the bed, Beth registered a good description of the intruder. He was a black male, probably in his early twenties, and wore a tank top with jeans. And even more importantly, she noticed a tattoo on his upper left arm, a red rose with a prickly green stem.

The second piece of evidence was the blood splattered on the bark of a tree. Chuck explained the blood as residue from shooting the intruder in the back. This seemed to interest the police, but until they found the man there was no victim, so Chuck was safe from any charges. Not that he cared. His only concern was keeping his family safe.

The police were convinced that if he’d been shot, as Chuck suggested, the intruder couldn’t have gotten far. All local hospitals were checked, but no match. Nor were there any further sightings of the alleged Peeping Tom.

Chuck met with authorities all night, leafing through heavy binders filled with photos of possible suspects. He was going to hunt down the terrorist on the terrorist’s turf. Beth was about defense and patrolling the borders. She wanted a police guard outside, and to build the Great Wall of China around their home.

The night’s only saving grace was that Carolyn, as usual, was out like Rip Van Winkle. She awoke on an overcast Monday morning, ready for school, with no idea what had happened the night before. Billy brought her to school, and when he explained the situation to the principal, including Dr. Jordan’s warnings about zealots and cults, they increased security at Little Brook.

School went by without incident, except for a group of boys who performed a science experiment on Carolyn to see if she could really feel pain, by shoving her to the ground. But being kids, they were best friends by the end of the day. Billy picked her up after school and they drove into New Canaan town center, needing to drop off a couple of articles at the Shoreline Times. With the “Abandoned No More” and “Painless Child” articles, not to mention the popular “Girl Quarterback” series, Billy was now the star of the local media. Which admittedly, wasn’t saying much.

When they passed the firehouse this time, the firemen gave Carolyn a standing ovation. The article had given her local celebrity status. The chief joked that he wished his whole staff had CIPA so they wouldn’t feel the intense heat when they ran into a building. But quickly grasped that heat was an important warning system for his men and retracted the comment.

A few more people came up to Carolyn on the street and called her by name. Then when they walked by a newspaper stand, Carolyn reached into the pile and picked up a lingering copy of Sunday’s Shoreline Times. She handed it to Billy and said, “Read it to me.”

“Carolyn, we’ve read the article over and over.”

“But it never gets old.”

“C’mon—let’s go to Molly’s and I’ll get you an ice cream.”

“How about if you just read my favorite part?”

“Since you know it by heart, why don’t you just tell it to me.”

Despite being unable to read, she recited lines of the article she had memorized like she were the lead in a school play. “Unaffected by the overwhelming circumstances of her life, the adorable four-year-old runs fearlessly at recess and charms all she touches…”

Billy smiled. “Don’t hurt yourself trying to pat yourself on your back.”
She tried unsuccessfully to pat herself on the back. “I got CIPA—I can’t get hurt, silly.”

“Actually, you can get hurt, you just can’t feel it.”

She silently pondered his words. Billy knew she was stubborn and hated to lose an argument, so she let it go when she realized he was right. The apple didn’t fall far from the tree.

For some reason, New Canaan appeared more populated late Monday afternoon. After-school teenagers drove Elm Street with radios blaring in their expensive Jeeps, and the gabby chants of power-shopping housewives filled the air. Billy and Carolyn arrived in front of the movie theater called the New Canaan Playhouse and a clique of high-schoolers noticed her. “Hey, you’re the girl who can’t feel!”

Carolyn was not one to shy away from the spotlight. “That’s what they tell me!”

As Carolyn played to her adoring fans, Billy noticed an older man walk by. He stood out from the normal demographics of downtown New Canaan that was mostly made up of women and teenagers.

“Yeah-yeah, I get that all the time,” Carolyn continued talking to her fans with a dismissive wave.

But Billy wasn’t listening, focused on the man. Where had he seen him before? Then it clicked—it was the man from the train who claimed Beth was purposely sent to Mrs. B.

He grabbed Carolyn’s hand and began chasing after him. But he quickly found Carolyn to be more hindrance than help. He asked the high school students if they would watch her for a moment or two, but they declined, not wanting to be late for the three o’clock movie. Fans are fickle. Out of options, Billy pointed at Carolyn and instructed, “Don’t move—I’ll be right back.”
He knew he shouldn’t have left her, but they had developed a certain trust. For all of her whimsical endeavors, whenever he had instructed her to stay, she would freeze up like a statue and not even move if a bus was coming directly at her.

Carolyn again listened, turning herself into another lamppost along the New Canaan sidewalk.

The man took a left off of Elm, looping onto Main. Billy scurried around the corner, almost plowing into a pair of Stepford wives carrying oversized shopping bags. Then he got lucky. He spotted the man getting into a silver Jaguar. Billy always had his reporter’s notebook handy and took down the plate number of the Connecticut tags. Then he hurried back to Carolyn.

Chapter 34

Carolyn stood by her lonesome on the curb in front of the Playhouse. The only muscle she moved was an occasional glance in the direction where Billy disappeared around the corner. Besides that, she was a rock.

A man with a red bandana draped over his head pulled up beside her on a motorcycle. He wore a tank top and jeans, his eyes hidden behind a pair of wraparound sunglasses. He had a tattoo of a red rose on the dark skin of his upper arm.

“Hello Carolyn,” he said. His voice was mechanical, reminding her of her toy robot.

“I’m waiting for Billy,” she informed him.

“Do you like my motorcycle?” he asked.

She fought the urge, but could only hold back so long. “I like motorcycles.”

“Then what do you say you get on the back and we’ll go for a ride?

“Billy told me to stay.”

“I talked to Billy—he said it was okay. He wants to surprise you, Carolyn.”

He twisted the handle bar and it made a va-voom sound.

“I like surprises.”

“C’mon, Carolyn, hurry.”

Her face scrunched. She was in the dilemma of all dilemmas. “I don’t know, but it would be fun!” she do-ra-mi’d.

“Then get on.”

“I told Billy I’d stay. I don’t want him to be mad—he’s my friend.”

“A friend would want you to have fun.”

Carolyn became overwhelmed, losing the battle in her mind. “We’re gonna haff fun!”

The man stuck out his hand and helped her onto the back of the bike.

***

Billy retreated his steps back onto Elm. His thoughts were still stuck on the man from the train, which was why he needed a second look for it to register.

Carolyn was getting on a motorcycle with a man!

He ran as fast as he could. “Carolyn!”

He got close enough to see the rose tattoo on the man’s arm. It was the intruder from last night! In a desperate lunge, he tackled Carolyn off the bike and skidded onto Elm Street, his back scraping across the asphalt. A large SUV slammed on its breaks and pretentiously honked.

Billy scrambled to his feet. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the intruder in pursuit, now on foot. He slung Carolyn over his shoulder and ran as fast as he could toward the Cherokee.

He jerked open the back door so hard it almost came off the hinges. He flung Carolyn in, and then slammed the door shut. She bounced to a stop on her injured shoulder.

“Just because I can’t feel pain doesn’t mean I wanna be thrown around like a doll,” she complained.

Billy didn’t have time for her whining. The intruder was now too close, making it impossible to slip into the driver’s seat and speed off, as was his plan. He turned without thinking, and headed directly toward their pursuer. The intruder was running full speed, transfixed on Carolyn, and never saw Billy change course.

Running full force, the intruder provided all the needed leverage. He ran into Billy’s punch and dropped to the ground like an anvil. Billy scrambled back to the Cherokee and took off like a rocket, tearing down Elm Street. It was now his personal version of Nightmare on Elm Street.

“What the hell were you thinking?” he yelled at Carolyn.

Her face slumped. “He said you said it was okay.”

“For future use, it’s never okay to get on the back of a stranger’s motorcycle. Are we clear?”

She said nothing. Statue.

Billy zoomed onto Main, heading as fast as he could out of New Canaan center.

“Get in your car seat!” he demanded.

“I’m trying—I can’t,” she said in a frustrated whine.

“Then use a grownup seat belt and hold on.”

She actually seemed excited by such a possibility. “Really?”

“Hurry up, Carolyn!”

Billy then did what he hated to do—he looked in his rear-view mirror. The motorcycle was gaining on them.

“Shit!” he said, and turned right onto Route 123.

“That’s not a nice word.”

“I don’t have time now, Carolyn.”

Billy was still fairly new to the area, but he did know that this was the way he and Chuck went to Durazzo’s in Norwalk. He figured he was better off sticking with familiarity.

The motorcycle was practically riding his back bumper. A couple of times the intruder swerved into the oncoming lane and drove side-by-side. He pointed a gun at Billy and shouted for them to pull to the side of the road. But Billy knew pulling over was a death sentence, and instead made a sharp turn onto the on-ramp of Interstate 95.

But he couldn’t shake him.

“Are we going to the Maritime Center?” Carolyn asked, recognizing the surroundings.

“What’s that?”

“It’s a place where they got lots of fishies.”

“Oh, the aquarium.”

“Are we going?”

Billy glanced into the dreaded rear-view and saw the intruder on their tail. “Not today.”

Carolyn pouted. “If this is the surprise, then it’s not a very good surprise.”

“What surprise?”

“The man on the motorcycle said you had a surprise for me.”

“What exactly did he say?”

She sighed, and then using her generic “grownup voice,” she repeated the intruder’s words verbatim, “I talked to Billy, he said it was okay. He wants to surprise you, Carolyn.”

“He knew your name?”

“Yes.”

“Shit!” he said and slammed the steering wheel. It was a planned attack. Beth was right—they were after Carolyn.

Billy’s gas was dangerously low, so he didn’t want to leave the area. He just wanted to lose the guy and call the police. He searched for his cell phone, but remembered he’d left it back at the cottage, and pounded the steering wheel again in anger.

Billy maneuvered into the far left lane of the northbound I-95. The motorcycle was still glued to his ass like a magnet to a refrigerator. Billy had an idea, but not enough time to determine if it was bold or stupid. He cut the wheel sharply to the right, and his vehicle spun a one-eighty. They skidded across all lanes like a derailed train—facing the wrong way!

Cars rushed at him like a video game, with horns honking and tires squealing. Billy regained his bearings and insanely headed south in the northbound lane. A tractor-trailer skidded a symphony of air-brakes, trying to avoid the wrong-way Cherokee, but it was too late. Billy knew it was a collision he wouldn’t win. The choice was beat the truck to the exit ramp or their next stop would be Sesame Street.

Billy shut his eyes, hoping Chuck and Beth would someday forgive his memory, and hit the accelerator.

The Cherokee shot horizontally across the highway, and swerved off the exit ramp they had just passed going the other way, almost tipping. Billy literally felt the Cherokee shake when eighteen-wheeler whizzed by, but was too shaken to let out a sigh of relief.

With the smell of burning rubber still fresh, the Cherokee came to a stop at the end of the exit ramp. He looked back, expecting Carolyn to be terrified. But received a refresher course on her genetic fearlessness. “That was fun!” she exclaimed.

“If you say so,” Billy said, voice shaking, and patting himself to make sure he was still alive.

“This is the way to Stew Leonard’s. Are we going there? Is that the surprise?” she asked with excitement.

“There is no surprise, Carolyn.”

“They got a petting zoo and strawberry milk at Stew Leonard’s!”

“Please be quiet and let me think,” he said, pondering his next move.

“Don’t knock it if you haven’t tried it.”

“Carolyn!”

“You’re no fun today.”

Billy turned around to voice his displeasure with her attitude. But when he did, his eyes leaked out the back window and saw the motorcycle speeding down the exit ramp, coming at them like a missile.

“Hold on,” Billy said, veering the car onto East Avenue. Carolyn had nothing to hold on to, but took him literally, extending her arms straight out to grip an imaginary bar.

The motorcycle followed. Their speed built. Billy ran a stoplight, hoping to be stopped by the cops. No such luck. He ran another, and a six-car pile-up almost occurred. The screeching tires and honking horns faded into the background as Billy fled the scene, but they couldn’t shake the robotic motorcycle that continued to relentlessly pursue.

Chapter 35

Billy made a sharp left onto Cemetery Road—ironic in their current situation—and then a right onto Gregory. The race continued. But then water suddenly appeared from both sides of the road.

Carolyn shouted, “Look—boats!”

Billy felt sick. He recognized where they were—the marina where the boat was launched for Grandma Beverly’s “going away” party. The Long Island Sound blocking them from the front, while the motorcycle chased them from the rear. They were trapped!

“We’re going to the beach! That’s the surprise!”

Billy felt the dagger of Carolyn’s words. He had no other option than to go pedal to the metal. He would drive into the water if that’s what it took to keep her safe.

He careened through the entrance of Calf Pasture Beach, bouncing over a lawn area, scraping park benches, and luckily missing the stout trunks of the large oak trees that lined the entrance. Nobody was there on an overcast day in the first week in October. If it were August, he would’ve easily killed twenty people.

Billy was at another dead end. The Cherokee thrust onto the sandy beach and pulled what Billy’s high school buddies used to refer to as a “hole shot.” Sand sprayed everywhere as Carolyn blissfully giggled.

Billy had no plan, except to try to beat the intruder to the punch. He jumped out of the vehicle, the smell of ocean filling his lungs. He ran toward the motorcycle, which had skidded to a more graceful stop. As he did, he noticed the gunshot wound on the intruder’s upper shoulder, just as Chuck avowed.

“You leave her alone!” Billy’s shout cut through the salty air. “What do you want?”

The intruder acted as if Billy wasn’t there. Like a robot, he ran right by him and toward the backseat of the Cherokee, where Carolyn was strapped in. In a crazed state, the intruder pounded the window until it shattered. His hand was decorated with blood and glass, but he didn’t seem at all fazed.

Billy lunged at him, his feet slipping in the sand. But was able to keep his balance just enough to make his first football tackle in years. Completely focused on Carolyn, the intruder didn’t notice him until he was on his back.

“Run Carolyn!” Billy shouted, trying to hold the intruder down.

She attentively followed his orders. She unbuckled her seat belt, opened the door and hopped out, then ran to a spot about ten feet away.

Billy wrestled with the intruder on the ground. He was strong, but so was Billy. They both fought with inhuman tenacity. Billy grabbed a piece of jagged glass and slit the intruder’s arm. The intruder didn’t even flinch, and karate-chopped Billy’s wrist, causing him to drop the glass.

They wrestled to a standstill before Billy got some assistance from the Healing Angel of Pain. He glanced up to witness Carolyn kicking the intruder with all her might, and shouting, “Leave Billy alone!”

“I told you to run, Carolyn!” Billy shouted back at her.

She flashed a “that’s the thanks I get?” look, but listened, and ran back to temporary safety. Billy took advantage of the distraction to pummel the intruder in the face with the punches he was saving for Senator LaRoche. He then picked him up by his tank top and continued pounding him. The intruder’s eyes swelled and the nose bled, but the punches didn’t seem to be having the affect they should. Billy discarded his dazed opponent on the beach, and shouted in Carolyn’s direction, “Let’s go!”

Like an army private obeying the order of a superior officer, she sprinted to him in her awkward kid running style, arms and legs flailing. He again tossed her into the back. No comments this time. “Buckle up,” he demanded as he peeled out in the sand.

Billy sped toward the beach entrance. Then his stomach dropped. The intruder was right beside him, on the motorcycle.

“I’m not trying to take her—I’m trying to save her,” Billy heard him shout.

He thought of the zealots Jordan talked of, who might actually believe they were saving Carolyn by abducting her. Billy knew this psycho wouldn’t stop until he got Carolyn. Again Billy got bold. It was the fourth quarter and time for the Hail Mary, or whatever cheesy football cliché fit the situation. He hit the breaks and the intruder flew by. The classic military tactic he learned from Top Gun. By the time the intruder realized what happened, Billy was headed right toward him. “Close your eyes, Carolyn!” he yelled.

As usual, she listened, placing her tiny hands over her eyes.

It was kill or be killed. This time Billy was going to pull the trigger. He hit the motorcycle straight on, cringing at the sound of crunching metal. Billy didn’t look back until they reached the beach entrance.

When he did glance into the rear-view mirror, he was again shocked by what he saw. The very much alive intruder was running after them on foot! They sped away—the silhouette of the man becoming smaller and smaller.

But it didn’t feel like they were getting further away.

Chapter 36

They say you should never run away from your problems, and nobody knew this better than Billy. But Tuesday morning, he joined Dana and the Whitcombs in spitting in the face of logic, and headed to Chuck’s hunting cabin on Lake George.

Chuck led the two-car caravan in his pickup, while Billy and Dana followed them in the Cherokee. An October chill was in the air, so Billy wore a heavy flannel shirt and jeans. Dana tried to keep things normal, wearing a fashionable pleaded skirt with, of course, heels.

Billy still wasn’t sure what to make of Dana since the “radio incident,” and remained perplexed as to why she hadn’t shared what she learned with Chuck and Beth. But she appeared to be more ally than enemy, and at the very least was less apprehensive than the last time they were in a vehicle together. So Billy wasn’t complaining.

She had done some digging since then, and with help of an old boyfriend, an investigative reporter for the Washington Post, she began connecting the dots. On their four-hour journey upstate, she was acting as if she was Billy’s lawyer and was making his case to the jury. At each interval she paused, like she were waiting for him to provide her a reasonable enough explanation that would clear his name. But to her disappointment, he refused.

A search of archived newspaper articles would’ve told her that Billy Harper defied a restraining order and stalked his wife across state lines, where he was arrested on charges of domestic battery and breaking and entering in Washington D.C. Since very few were interested in Billy Harper after his football career prematurely ended, the arrest received very little publicity. The charges were soon dropped, and for all intents and purposes, the case never really existed.

But Dana’s digging revealed that the maiden name of his ex-wife—Kelly Harper—was Klein, an heir to the Klein Beer fortune. She also found that Kelly Klein was now ironically married to Oliver LaRoche, the senator from Pennsylvania, and Dana guessed correctly that he was the model for the senator in Billy’s novel. She then deduced that LaRoche had used his influence to make the case disappear before it came to light that the incident was sparked by his having an affair with Kelly Harper. Especially since he was married at the time and his wife was dying of cancer back in Pennsylvania. Extra-marital affairs behind a sick wife’s back didn’t jibe with his family values agenda.

Billy could tell that Dana suspected there was much more to the story. She was right, there was a lot more to the story. But it was a story Billy didn’t plan to discuss, now or ever. And since LaRoche had used his power and influence to seal the records, Billy could leave it in the rear-view mirror where it belonged, just like any stories of the Boulangers purchasing children on the black market.

Carolyn was oblivious as to why they were leaving, but was excited by the mid-week adventure. She wore a personalized, miniature Albany River Rats hockey jersey, her father’s old team. The name Whitcomb was inscribed across the back with the number ½ planted in the center of her back. It was Chuck’s final stop on an eighteen year tour of minor league hockey that took him everywhere from Ontario to Oklahoma. But Albany was the most important stop—it’s where he had met Beth.

Carolyn’s hair was in a ponytail and her arm still in a sling. Despite her negotiation tactics, she still had to wear the sling until her next check-up with the Drs. Carlson. She petitioned to ride with Billy and Dana, but Beth wasn’t going to let her out of her sight, perhaps for the rest of her life. Her car seat was strapped in the back seat of the pickup behind her parents, facing backwards. Every few seconds she would energetically wave at the Cherokee.

Carolyn might have been unaffected by yesterday’s events, but Billy still couldn’t get the man on the motorcycle out of his mind. Just like when Carolyn attempted to fly off the porch, he couldn’t grasp that the man he mowed down with the Cherokee continued to chase them. The CIPA diagnosis seemed like a nice, neat resolution, but perhaps it was too nice and neat. Wild theories filled Billy’s mind. The craziest was that they were dealing with two aliens from a far-away galaxy and the man on the motorcycle was trying to bring Carolyn back to the mother-ship. Life was starting to become a living and breathing thriller. Billy found them much more fun to write than live. Every car they passed was a potential enemy and he even looked at the gas station attendant with suspicious eyes.

Chuck’s wooden, one-level cabin was hidden from civilization on a couple of acres of forest. One side was guarded by Lake George, while mountain views of the Adirondacks hovered in the rear. Depending on if you are a glass is half-full or half-empty person, it could either serve as a great hiding area or become their Alamo.

There was no running water or plumbing; the cabin’s only amenity was fresh country air. The interior was made up of knotty pine walls that smelled like burning wood. It had two cramped bedrooms that would make for some awkward sleeping arrangements, and the bathroom was a choice between a closet-sized outhouse behind the cabin and endless acres of thick forest.

Dana, who made Jessica Simpson seem like a skilled outdoorsman, looked nauseous. She negotiated like a desperate child to go shop at some of the many outlets surrounding the Lake George community. But since that would have defeated the whole purpose of the trip, the idea was shot down.

After they finished unpacking the vehicles, everyone migrated to a grassy meadow area outside the cabin. It was like an oasis in the middle of the thick forest. Level ground extended about thirty feet from the cabin, before declining sharply to a boat slip at the water’s edge.

The two women sat on lounge chairs sipping drinks. Water for Beth, while Dana sipped from her personal survival kit—a bottle of Pinot. Beth was completely focused on Carolyn, who ran around aimlessly, pushing the limits of how close she could get to the water before Beth’s warnings echoed off the lake. It was a game to her.

Billy joined Chuck in pacing. They were like two lions protecting their young. As he paced, Billy’s mind continued to race. Ideas that normally led to great plot twists in his writing were no longer fictional. He kept expecting the intruder to zoom out of the woods at any moment and whisk Carolyn away on his motorcycle.

He could also tell that Chuck wasn’t in his element. Chuck was about offense, not defense. His version of normalcy was spotting his prey move into the corner of the rink, and skating toward him like a runaway truck. He would move closer…closer…closer. Then bam! He would crush him into the corner with a teeth-rattling blow, the Plexiglas shaking. Maybe they would drop gloves and fight, or maybe his opponent would cower at the sight of the six-foot-six behemoth. But regardless, he would be on the offensive. Not hiding at a cabin in upstate New York. Hours passed and Beth finally said, “Honey, why don’t you go hunting? You know how it relaxes you.”

Chuck stopped his pacing. “I’m not leaving you and Carolyn.”

Beth informed him that it was an order, not a request. He took his marching orders, which Billy found funny, at least until Chuck recruited him to come along. Billy wanted no part of killing Bambi’s mom, so he declined the offer. But a few minutes later he was wearing an orange vest and carrying a shotgun.

Chuck confidently held his twelve-gauge, double barrel shotgun. He described it as an older, side-by side model called a LeFever Nitro Special. Billy awkwardly held his Remington pump shotgun. Chuck handed him some shells, which he fit into the pocket of the orange vest.

Upon seeing Billy in his hunting getup, Dana broke into laughter. “Well don’t we feel protected now. Is that an Amish rifle?”

“Very funny. Maybe if someone attacks you can offer him a glass of wine and take him shopping.”

Now Beth laughed. “My money is on Dana.”

Finally it was Carolyn’s turn to laugh. “Grownups are so silly!”

Chapter 37

Billy followed Chuck into the thick woods, which eventually emptied into a green meadow. Chuck explained that it wasn’t deer hunting season, so Bambi’s mother was off limits. They would concentrate on small game, which included an assortment of rabbit, quail, pheasant, and partridge.

“So are you going to teach me what to do, or am I on my own?” Billy asked.

Chuck laughed. He was relaxed—hunting was normalcy for him. “Maybe we can head down to the bookstore and get you one of those Hunting for Dummies books.”

“Hunting for dummies, isn’t that redundant?”

Chuck glared at him.

“You’re going to kill me, aren’t you?”

“I’d like to, eh, but do you know the cost of a babysitter these days?”

Chuck then professorially taught Billy how to pull back the pump on his gun and load five shells. He explained that Billy’s shotgun was different from the one he was using, which didn’t use a pump. Then Chuck went through a set of checkpoints, before ending his instructions with, “And remember, a shotgun is a lot different than the high-powered rifle that I used on the intruder the other night. A shotgun shell sprays bee-bees so you don’t have to be marksman-accurate at close range.”

Chuck spotted a rabbit about twenty yards in front of them and instructed Billy to raise the wooden butt stock, also known as the back of the gun, into his upper shoulder. Billy held the gun steady, feeling lighter than he thought it would.

He looked at the poor rabbit before him. He didn’t feel good about what he was about to do, but reminded himself he was no vegetarian. Hamburgers didn’t appear at the supermarket courtesy of the meat fairy. He went through the checkpoints Chuck taught him. Lean forward—stabilize—anticipate movement—deep breath—put finger on trigger.

He squeezed the trigger.

The gun erupted and he kicked back, surprised by how loud it was. He might not have needed to be a marksman, but he needed to be much better than he was. He wasn’t sure how much he missed by, but since the rabbit hopped away unscathed, it obviously hadn’t been hit. Billy swore he saw one of those Bugs Bunny mocking grins on its face.

Chuck took aim, the shotgun wedged into his tall shoulder. He lightly pulled the trigger, a shot rang out, and Bugs was out of the moves. That’s all folks.

Chuck instructed Billy to put the carcass into the pouch attached to his waist. He informed Chuck that under no circumstances was he walking around for the rest of the afternoon carrying a dead animal. Moments later, Billy followed Chuck into a pine tree lined field with his new “pet rabbit” attached to his waist. They walked side-by-side in a zigzagging pattern across the field, guns armed and ready, and Chuck continually scolding Billy to take his finger off the trigger.

A thunderous, surround-sound of flapping wings suddenly filled the air. Billy jumped back, but Chuck remained calm and fired. Birds fell to the ground as if it were raining pheasants.

They continued this ritual throughout the afternoon, filling their pouches with dead birds. Most of them, actually all, shot by Chuck. Billy became more comfortable with the gun, but still wasn’t a very good shot.

The hunting created a momentary diversion, but the topic soon returned to the reason they were playing hooky in upstate New York.

“So who do you think is after my daughter, eh?” Chuck asked.

“I don’t know,” Billy answered, keeping his alien theories to himself.

Chuck nodded as if he expected the answer. “Last night Beth said she couldn’t believe Carolyn got on the motorcycle with that monster. Carolyn overheard us and began to argue that he wasn’t a monster. She said he was a firefly.”

Billy shrugged. “So?”

“Carolyn has a special ability to tell the good people from the bad people—I’m convinced of this. The fact that she thought her kidnapper was an angel would destroy my whole belief system.”

“I don’t know who or what he was, but I do think he had the same thing as her. When we fought at the beach, it was like he didn’t even feel my punches. And for God’s sake, I hit him head-on with my Cherokee.”

“I shot the guy with a high powered rifle and he kept running. I’m with you on this one, but what does this mean?”

“It would make sense that one of these crazy groups Jordan talked about would use a CIPA kid to lure her. She would feel a kinship.”

“But then how come he never revealed he had it? Wouldn’t he use their common bond as a way to attract Carolyn? His behavior was the opposite—like he didn’t want anyone to know. We still don’t know for sure if he did.”

Billy nodded his head, a tired, baffled look filling his face.

“So are you going to tell me what was so important that you abandoned my daughter on a busy street?”

Billy’s face filled with regret. “I can’t apologize to you enough for that. I swear it will never happen again.”

“I’m more interested in your reason than an apology. My guess is you wouldn’t have left her unless you had a good reason.”

Billy gave in and told Chuck the whole story. He began with Debi Edelstein and the man on the train. Then seeing the same man yesterday. Billy had done some research last night, and the Jaguar was registered to a Joe Skaggs, who was an attorney with an office in New Canaan. The rest of his bio matched what he told Billy on the train.

Chuck actually knew Joe Skaggs. He had done legal work for Beverly. Chuck doubted his involvement in anything sinister, such as Billy’s theory that Skaggs purposely lured him away to assist the man on the motorcycle snatch Carolyn, and reminded Billy that their meeting on the train was prior to learning of Carolyn’s diagnosis.

Billy eventually got to the part where he now believed Beth was purchased by the Boulangers in an illegal transaction, with Mrs. B front-and-center involved in it.

Chuck was silent for what seemed like minutes. Then finally said, “That would kill Beth. Let’s keep it to ourselves, eh?”

Billy could tell it hurt him to keep anything from his wife.

They zigzagged through more high grass. Like clockwork, more sounds of flapping wings echoed off the Adirondacks. Billy again shot, and again hit nothing.

“You would think with your background with guns, you would be a lot better shot,” Chuck said out of the blue.

Billy was startled. “What?”

“Let’s just say, I know why you don’t like to discuss the past. Assault with a deadly weapon is a pretty ugly last memory of a once happy relationship, eh? Whether charges were dropped or not.”

“You know?”

“I’ve known. Hawk’s show is syndicated on an affiliate up here. I was listening when I was on my hunting trip, and then I did some research.”

“Then how come you didn’t throw me out?” Billy asked, his eyes landing on Chuck’s gun. “Are you sure your not going to kill me?”

“No, but Beth might if she ever finds out. I only judge people on what I know of them. If I let Beth’s past issues keep me from being with her, then my life would be pretty sad and lonely.”

He could tell Chuck didn’t want to delve further into this subject. He had made his point.

“What do you say we head back and check on the girls?” Chuck suggested and Billy eagerly agreed.

With nightfall descending, they trudged back to the cabin. “Any other theories?” Chuck asked.

“I had one about aliens.”

“Well, we better get back then before the mother-ship lands,” he said with a chuckle, but it wasn’t funny.

They crunched on sticks and brush as they headed back to the cabin.

Then they heard a scream.

It was Carolyn’s scream.

Chapter 38

Chuck readied his shotgun as he barreled toward the scream. Billy tried to keep up with Chuck’s long strides, but found it a struggle just to avoid the branches snapping back into his face and he fell helplessly behind. He could see Chuck up in the distance, closing in on the danger—his shouts ripping through the forest. “Carolyn!”

Billy arrived at the campsite a distant second to Chuck, but just in time to hear Carolyn’s voice shout back, “Daddy!”

It was a happy voice. The voice of relief.

Chuck was looking at Beth with confusion. She sat on a lounge chair with the residue of laughter on her face.

“I heard her scream,” he said, out of breath. “What’s so funny?”

Beth pointed to a spot where Dana stood with Carolyn. “Carolyn fell with the sparkler. The brush caught on fire and she screamed. But the funny part was watching Dana put the fire out with her four-hundred-dollar shoes.”

Carolyn began running toward them with the sparkler in her non-sling arm, spraying light in the darkening sky. Dana followed gingerly, carrying her barbecued heels.

Carolyn noticed Billy removing his pouch with the “small game” her father shot. “Billy—you brought me stuffed animals!”

He looked to Chuck and Beth for help. He didn’t know what to do with that one.

Chuck winked back at him like he had a plan, and then swooped Carolyn into his arms. “So what did you girls talk about when we were gone?” he asked, allowing Billy to stash the dead animals.

Carolyn came fast out of the blocks, sprinting a tangent, “Mommy told Aunt Dana that she was flirting with Billy. Aunt Dana said she wasn’t, but then she smiled and Mommy said, ‘you haff a thing for him, don’t you?’”

Carolyn took a deep breath, and then continued, a mile a minute, “Aunt Dana said Billy was different from the others. And Mommy said she liked Billy and he has been great with Carolyn—that’s me—but he’s a mess. Then Aunt Dana said for Mommy to not worry her pretty little head because Aunt Dana and Billy are just friends. Then I got to play with the sparklers.”

Chuck laughed. “That might be a little too much information, princess.”

“Hey—don’t shoot the messenger.”

Dana headed toward the cabin, perhaps to put some aloe on her red face. “I need a drink.”

Billy headed toward the lake. “I think I’m going to clean up a little...since I’m such a mess.”

While hunting, Chuck said the plan was to cook up whatever they shot and serve it for dinner. Billy wasn’t looking forward to eating rabbit or pheasant. Or plucking the feathers, which Chuck told him would be his job. So he was pleasantly surprised that they grilled hamburgers and hot dogs instead.

After dinner, they sat in the lounge chairs next to a campfire that Chuck built. Their only entertainment was watching Carolyn run around, playing with her sparklers and trying to catch fireflies.

Dana recovered from her earlier embarrassment, helped by a few stiff drinks, and began photographing the night with her digital camera that had some techno, night-vision gadget she was quite proud of. As if one day, feeling in a sentimental mood, one of them would go, “Let’s look at the pictures of the time when we were hiding out in the woods acting all paranoid when some lunatic was trying to kidnap Carolyn!”

Drawn to the camera, Carolyn rejoined the group. She negotiated with Dana to allow her to use the camera, and when the princess got her way, she ordered, “Billy—get over by my family.”

He followed her command.

“You too, Aunt Dana,” she said, and Dana followed the instructions.

The four of them huddled around the fire in front of the woodsy backdrop. Carolyn stood about ten feet away, awkwardly placed the camera to her face, and exclaimed, “Say cheese!”

“Cheese!” they all said in unison and the flash lit up the night.

Carolyn then ran to show off her masterpiece, which probably captured more trees than people.

Chuck had first viewing. He broke into laughter, proudly telling the group that it was perfectly centered. “That’s my girl, eh.”

He handed it to Dana. At first she looked impressed. But then her face dropped.

Billy read her panicked look and pulled the camera away. He looked closely at the photo on the camera disk. On it, he saw the dark figure lurking in the background.

Chapter 39

Chuck picked up his shotgun and moved toward the heart-dropping sound of crunching leaves, the predator scampering back into the woods. Any hope that the sound was some sort of techno glitch had gone out the window.

Obeying Chuck’s instructions, everyone remained by the lounge chairs, nervously watching him move toward to the tree-lined edge of the woods. His gun was raised, ready to strike. Billy could tell he was straining to remain still, anxiously awaiting the “flapping of wings.” He was on offense now—in his comfort zone, ready to slam his opponent into the Plexiglas and drop the gloves.

The night was still, only the chirping crickets had the guts to say anything. It had the feel of the obligatory scene in the horror movie, right before something really bad was going to happen.

On cue, the sound of someone scurrying through the woods shattered the silence. Chuck turned sharply, ready to fire. But before he could, or anyone had a chance to warn him about the dark silhouette appearing behind him, the intruder had one arm wrapped around Chuck’s neck from behind, the other pointing a handgun at his temple.

Chuck didn’t get a chance to drop the gloves. His only prudent move was to drop the shotgun, which he did.

Chuck was walked back to the group at gunpoint. Defeat filled his eyes, as if thinking he’d let everyone down.

Billy’s eyes never left the young black man who was holding the gun. He wore the same tank top and jeans he wore the last time they crossed paths. He noticed the rose tattoo on his arm and the festering wound in his shoulder area where Chuck had shot him. Billy was no doctor, but the wound looked in dire need of attention.

Now only feet away, Billy got his first good look at his face. During their first meeting he was too busy punching him to notice. He appeared much younger than Billy expected. Maybe twenty at the oldest, but more likely around sixteen. His eyes were scared and his body language was childlike. He seemed nothing more than a scared kid.

He fidgeted with the gun as he spoke for the first time. “I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

Beth was like a cornered animal. She pulled Carolyn closer to her. “What do you want?!”

The intruder eyed each of them individually, until he came to the little girl. Beth took a step back, still clinging onto Carolyn, but there was nowhere to go. They could no longer run from their problems—their problem was standing a few feet away and eyeing Carolyn.

“I need to talk to Carolyn,” the intruder robotically stated.

“Over my dead body. You leave my baby alone!” Beth screeched.

But Carolyn began walking slowly toward the man as if she were in a trance. Billy’s alien theory was gaining steam.

“Carolyn, get back here!” Beth’s words echoed off the dark lake.

She took a step toward Carolyn, and the man brandished his firearm at her head. Beth would probably have brushed off the deadly threat and kept after her, but Carolyn turned and said, “It’s okay, Mommy, he’s nice.”

“Carolyn—get back here right now!” Beth attempted to order, but it sounded more like begging.

Carolyn didn’t listen, arriving at the man with her hand extended to shake. He didn’t respond, appearing mystified by the custom. Like he’d never seen it before—as if he was from another world. Aliens?

Carolyn grabbed his hand and comfortably giggled. “It’s a handshake, silly.” She then added, “My name is Carolyn Whitcomb, but you can call me princess.”

The man smiled. It wasn’t the smile of an evil predator. It was the wide-eyed wonderment of someone who was seeing the world for the first time. “I know. I’ve been searching for you.”

Beth gasped at the words. Chuck took an aggressive step and got the gun pointed at him, forcing him to slam on the brakes.

“You are the man with the big boy motorcycle,” Carolyn observed.

He nodded his head.

“What’s your name?”

“My name is Calvin Rose,” he said and showed her the tattoo of the rose on his bare arm.

Carolyn looked excited. “Whoa—you did finger paints on your arm. Can I paint my arm?”

“Stay away from that monster, Carolyn!” Beth shouted.

“I told you, he’s not a monster—he’s a firefly.”

A very Poltergeist moment, Billy thought. He expected the ghoulish little woman to appear and yell, “Run to the light, Carolyn! Run to the light!”

Calvin kneeled down beside Carolyn and began to poke and prod her.

“Get your hands off my daughter!” Beth yelled in desperation. Chuck grabbed Beth and took her into his arms. It was the wrong move to scare the already scared boy. Scared people do irrational things. Now was not the time to drop the gloves.

“You have the anesthesia too,” Calvin said to Carolyn, ignoring the others. It was just the two of them.

Her face scrunched. “I don’t think I haff amateesera.”

He pinched her arm tightly. She didn’t even flinch. “I can’t feel my boo-boos,” she said, now understanding, and stuck out her tongue for a visual aid.

He tapped the bullet wound in his shoulder, and assimilated to her language. “I can’t feel my boo-boos either.”

“Does that mean you can’t play hockey, too?”

He has CIPA also, Billy thought, confirming his earlier theory.

A noise bristled through the woods and the silent night turned chaotic once again. It sounded like an animal, but Calvin Rose didn’t seem so sure. He was again on-point. His childlike gaze left and the cynical glare of a warrior appeared.

“Go by the others,” he instructed Carolyn.

Calvin then moved to the campfire and extinguished it with a bottle of water he found in Chuck’s cooler. Then he moved around the grounds in an inspection-type manner, only the sharp moonlight lighting his path. It was like he was expecting someone to arrive. He appeared as paranoid as the rest of them. And that was saying a lot.

Billy made eye contact with Chuck, to indicate that now was the time to make a run for it. Chuck subtly shook his head, silently replying that now wasn’t the right time to make their move. Billy trusted Chuck, and it was his daughter’s life on the line.

Calvin soon returned, his gun at ease by his side. “Our time is limited,” he said like they were all on the same team.

“Time is limited for what?” Billy asked.

“They will be here soon. We must protect your foal,” he said, pointing to Carolyn.

Beth was incensed, and had possibly crossed the line to insanity “What will protect her is you putting down that gun and getting the hell out of here!”

Calvin didn’t respond. He eyeballed everyone like he was taking attendance. He took on the calm aura of a leader. Billy recognized himself from his football days.

Calvin pointed at Beth. “You are Carolyn’s dam, correct?”

“I’m her mother, and you are going to be god dam sorry you ever messed with us!”

The language intrigued Billy. Foal? Dam? He was familiar with the horse terms. The Klein family owned thoroughbreds and their annual pilgrimage to the Kentucky Derby was more sacred to them than Christmas. But what did it mean in this case?

Calvin pointed at Chuck. “You are the stallion who sired her, correct?”

More horse terms.

Chuck didn’t seem to know what to say, so he just nodded.

Calvin appeared to be putting together a puzzle in his head. Or maybe he was just mentally deranged. He looked at Billy. “What is your purpose?”

“I’m a friend.”

“Do friends have the anesthesia?”

“What? No.”

Calvin began mumbling to himself. “The outside is different. The only ones I know who don’t have the anesthesia are stallions, dams, doctors, and trainers. I don’t understand friend.”

“A friend is someone who will do anything to protect Carolyn,” Billy informed.

“Who is the other mare?” Calvin asked, pointing at Dana.

Dana trembled. Billy put his arm around her, attempting to comfort.

“I have a trust fund. You can have anything you want if you let Carolyn go,” she pleaded.

Calvin kept focus. “They are coming for Carolyn—probability is 85%—we must act quickly.”

“We will not help you! Stay away from my daughter!” Beth yelled.

“My mission is to protect her.”

“I told you, he’s a firefly,” Carolyn insisted.

Beth began to sob. “He’s not a firefly, Carolyn, he is just pretending to be one, and then he’s going to harm you.”

Chapter 40

Calvin swelled with urgency. “I have placed three metallic cans containing a petroleum-derived liquid mix beside the lake, adjacent to the boat dock.”

What the non-aliens call gasoline, Billy thought.

“I need the two mares to take two of the cans and pour the substance along the brush of the shoreline. Then bring me the third can,” he instructed in a calm, mechanical tone.

“What if we refuse?” Dana asked, defiantly wiping tears.

“Then I will shoot the stallion and the friend,” he said coldly. He wasn’t fooling around. Whether the danger he felt was real or imagined, he believed firmly in its imminence. Chuck nodded to the group, indicating they should follow the orders.

The women reluctantly headed toward the lake. Beth and Chuck exchanged glances. Chuck shouted to her, his words attempting to reassure that he would protect Carolyn at any cost, but that was already understood. Beth took one last look at Carolyn and Chuck, holding it for a moment like she was taking a photo in her mind.

Once the women were out of sight, Billy put on his reporter hat. “Who is after Carolyn?”

Calvin appeared distracted. “The trainers.”

“Who are the trainers?”

“Time is limited.”

“You need us to help you,” Billy took a stab. “We will help, but only if you tell us who you are and who is after us?”

Calvin looked as if he were weighing the possibilities in his mind, before arriving at the conclusion that he needed their cooperation for the mission to succeed. He ushered Carolyn out of earshot, but close enough to keep watch over her, then told them the sordid tale.

“I was a member of a group called Operation Anesthesia. On a recent mission, my male sibling, André, who knew about the outside, set up an escape plan. He had told us of the outside world, a place they can’t make you go on missions, where,” he looked at Billy and finally had a name for those he fought with, “your friends didn’t come back and could no longer be with their dam. We must not let that happen to Carolyn. They are looking for me—the logical response was to remain concealed, but I couldn’t stand the idea of the trainers getting Carolyn. I saw her on the …”

He tried to explain it like he was playing Pictionary, but struggled to communicate. Either he’d never come in contact with this outside world he spoke of, or he was a great actor.

Billy finally grasped what he meant. “Television?”

Calvin nodded, as if the term had come back to him. “Affirmative. I knew they would come for her. My dam told us that they recruit foals with the anesthesia from the outside like my male sibling, André. I was born inside the camp, as was my other male sibling, Bronson, who also escaped with us.”

“Everyone in Operation Anesthesia has CIPA?” Billy asked.

Blank look. He needed to speak his language.

“All the foals they bring to the camp have the anesthesia?”

“Affirmative.”

“How did you escape?” Chuck asked.

“My squad was on reconnaissance mission to 31.41 degrees north latitude—53.49 degrees east longitude—city: Yazd—country: Iran. We followed André’s lead. He fired on our own squad and trainers. A sandstorm reduced visibility. The helicopter went down, allowing a window of opportunity for escape. I learned on the television that our squad was captured and terminated,” Calvin talked in text-bookish ways, giving latitude and longitude coordinates of a place, more like a computer than a scared kid. But his emotions were human; Billy could see the regret of leaving the others behind. Like Carolyn, he could feel pain on the inside.

Billy felt like his head would explode. If Calvin was telling the truth, his “squad” were the Iranian hostages! As Calvin continued to tell the story of Operation Anesthesia, Billy put the puzzle pieces together. And when the puzzle was complete, Billy couldn’t believe the picture it painted. Calvin was part of a covert operation that kidnapped CIPA children, trained them like robots at some camp, and then marched them into potential suicide missions.

As insane as it sounded, the premise was built on logic. Those afflicted with CIPA could withstand drastic temperatures and rugged terrain. And with a quick glance at Calvin’s shoulder wound, Billy saw firsthand how they could take punishment beyond the normal human. Billy’s gut told him that Calvin was telling the truth.

“Did you work for the United States Government?” Billy asked.

The questions began to overload Calvin’s computer, and he started to fluster. “I don’t know.”

“Where is this camp?”

“I don’t know.”

“Was it hot or cold? What language did the trainers speak? How did you get from Iran to New York?”

“I can’t sense temperatures, we were trained in numerous languages, and by hiding on cargo ship,” he methodically answered the questions, before flipping a switch to raw human emotion, “Time is limited!”

“Where are your brothers now—your male siblings?”

“I only have the ability to identify the location of Bronson. We are applying a tactic taught by the trainers to restrict the number of contacts. Only Bronson can identify André’s location, and only André can identify my location. A triangle.”

“Then where is Bronson?”

“45 degrees north latitude—70 degrees west longitude—city: Montreal—province: Quebec—country: Canada—continent: North America.”

“Why Montreal?”

“Bronson thinks if we don’t have the anesthesia anymore, then the trainers won’t need us. He is searching for a cure, but André informed him it would require a miracle. Our dam told us the story of miracles—miracles are located in Montreal.”

“How do we know you aren’t still working for this Operation Anesthesia, and you are just using us to get Carolyn?” Chuck asked, looking ready to drop the gloves if he received the wrong answer.

“Operation Anesthesia trained Anesthesia soldiers to be assassins. If I wanted to harm you or Carolyn, it would have already occurred.”

Good point.

Beth and Dana returned, carrying a red gas can. Beth immediately ran to Carolyn and hugged her.

“Mission accomplished?” Calvin asked.

“Do I not smell like a Mobil Station?” Dana snarled at him.

Calvin coldly pointed his gun at Chuck. Billy knew it was a bluff, but it was effective. “Yes, we poured the gas just as you said,” Dana conceded.

“Now I need the stallion to go into the trees and transport my motorcycle.”

Chuck began walking, no longer questioning the orders. Carolyn naturally followed, but Calvin grabbed her. “Carolyn stays with me.”

Beth then ran at him, punching, kicking and screaming. “You leave my daughter alone, you bastard!”

Billy could tell he couldn’t feel the punches, just like when they fought at the beach. But that didn’t seem to bother Beth. It took both Billy and Dana to physically restrain her.

Chuck returned with the motorcycle, which Calvin had hidden in a pine tree at the edge of the woods. He was either really good with bodywork or had stolen a different one after Billy had mangled the one at the beach. Calvin removed a backpack from the motorcycle and strapped it to his back. He then ordered Chuck to place the motorcycle inside the cabin.

Carolyn looked disappointed; she wasn’t going to get a ride.

Billy didn’t grasp the strategy. He thought they were going to get out of Dodge before the aliens showed up. But Calvin was hunkering down. This was going to be their Alamo.

Calvin took the gas can and soaked the cabin, inside and out.

What was he doing?

Chapter 41

“They are going to come from the water,” Calvin stated in a self-assured tone, aging decades right before their eyes.

He moved toward the lake, leaving the others behind. Except Carolyn, who he wasn’t letting out of his sight, or reach. When he returned, he asked Carolyn for one of her sparklers. The smiling girl handed him one, along with a safety-first warning. She then provided a spirited, “Sparklers are fun!”

Calvin then gathered his troops, who didn’t know what or who to believe, but had no choice but to follow. “Our best weapon is surprise. They don’t expect me to be here, and don’t expect you to have knowledge of what is going on. Recruiting squads are small and mobile. Quiet in—quiet out. The element of surprise is on our side.”

With his eyes, Chuck encouraged everyone to play along. Billy seconded with a slight head nod. He knew Calvin was right; if he wanted to kill them he could have done it without the drama. And if he were just a lone lunatic who forgot to take his meds, then they would have to stall long enough until the authorities arrived to investigate the fire he was about to start.

Calvin grabbed Carolyn and again headed toward the water.

Beth followed. “Wherever Carolyn goes, I go!”

Before the inevitable confrontation occurred between the two of them, the sound of splashing water pierced the quiet night. Light footsteps followed. If they weren’t on paranoid alert, they never would’ve noticed.

Calvin turned toward the dark night and fired his gun. It echoed loudly, causing everyone to jump. A dark silhouette fell to the ground. “It’s an aqua squad,” Calvin uttered matter-of-factly and then fired again. Another body fell.

Dana screamed. Billy and the others were too stunned to move or speak. Calvin lit the sparkler and tossed it toward the aroma of gasoline. “Move back!” he ordered, as the edge of the lake lit up like a fire fence.

Calvin reached into his backpack and pulled out...a grenade!

He removed the plug and lobbed it out into the water. A boat lit up with an explosion. Then he tossed another. “They are coming by boat. Likelihood of five divers and a trainer, two are down,” he robotically rattled off.

They retreated backward up the lawn, away from the firewall. Another silhouette dashed through the flames, continuing to run toward them with its body ablaze. It looked like those gruesome suicides that were infamous during the Vietnam War. Calvin aimed and fired. The fireball dropped to the ground.

Billy winced. Based on Calvin’s story, it was probably a once-innocent CIPA kid who just got gunned down. Just like Carolyn. Kidnapped at a young age and trained to kill. Not even feeling the fire.

Calvin lobbed two more grenades. The explosions ripped through the night, and sparked retaliatory gunfire from the boat. Machine-gun fire pelted the coast. Another fireball of a man—or child—ran through the fence of fire. Calvin again coolly gunned him down, as he was trained to do.

Flames began to surround the entire meadow. The crackling of wood indicated that the fire had spread to the forest. The thick smell of fire was sweeping through like an invading militia, and breathing became a challenge. Carolyn didn’t do well in the heat with her fevers, and looked like she was going to wilt.

“We must get to the cabin,” Calvin talked over the sounds of war.

They ran across the burning yard, surrounding Carolyn like a fortress; she was precious cargo. Bullets sprayed. Then Chuck fell to the ground like an anchor.

Beth ran to him—he was bleeding near his neck. “Get down,” Calvin ordered without emotion.

Like a trained physician, Calvin methodically examined Chuck. Pulse—heart rate—breathing—vitals. He referred to his eyes as “orbs” and used “pelt” to describe his skin color. More horse terms.

“It’s only flesh—carotid artery not hit,” he delivered the news in a mechanical style.

It wasn’t life threatening, but what was behind them was. They swiftly crawled to the cabin. Then the bullets suddenly stopped, which meant one of two things. The good being, the soldiers cowered and ran from the scene. The not-so-rosy scenario was they had come ashore, plotting to finish the job. From the look in Calvin’s eyes, Billy knew whatever they did in the next few moments might determine their futures.

They ducked inside the gasoline-smelling cabin. Billy couldn’t take his eyes off of Calvin, who appeared numb. He’d seen that look in the mirror. Calvin had come to the literal and figurative end of the road.

“Operation Anesthesia has retreated, but this is not the end,” Calvin addressed them, sounding sure. “The trainers will regroup. They will seek Carolyn until she is captured, just as they will with my siblings and myself. They always taught us that failure is not an option for Operation Anesthesia.”

Calvin knelt beside Carolyn. This time Beth didn’t object. They were now on the same team.

“It was a pleasure to meet you, Carolyn, but we now must go our separate ways.”

Carolyn’s face saddened. “You haff to go?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Whataya say, that instead, we ride motorcycles,” she tried to negotiate.

He smiled, but couldn’t mask the sadness in his face. A tear fell from his “orbs.” He was part raw emotion and part machine. “I must go now,” he said.

He took off a necklace—a replica of the rose he had tattooed on his arm. He draped it around Carolyn’s neck like a gold medal ceremony in the Olympics. “This will keep you safe.”

“It’s pretty.”

“My dam used to say to me that beauty is freedom and freedom is life. May you remain free on the outside.” He then kissed her on the forehead. Billy wondered if his mother would do the same when he would leave the camp to go on a mission.

Like a chameleon, Calvin metamorphosed from a childlike creature that inspired a heartfelt smile from Carolyn, back into a rugged soldier. He robotically motioned to Beth. “You and the other mare transport Carolyn to your vehicles and wait for instructions from the stallion and the friend.”

“Call me Chuck.”

“You can keep calling me friend,” Billy said, “and for the record, your brother Bronson is wrong. You don’t need a cure, there is nothing wrong with you. The people with the problem are these trainers.”

Calvin nodded with understanding.

Carolyn tried to negotiate to play with Calvin for five more minutes, before Beth and Dana whisked her away. She looked back and waved, a sad, droopy wave with a glum face to match. She knew this was the end of the road.

Billy was confused as to what would happen next. Then it became clear—

...and horrifying.

Chapter 42

Calvin addressed Billy and Chuck, “Time is limited. The trainers are relentless. You must split up.”

It was hard to hear him with the crackling fire and the sirens in the distance. He seemed to notice this and raised his voice. Billy could tell that what he was about to say was the key to their survival.

“Chuck, the dam, and the other mare need to stay here and falsely report that the friend and Carolyn died in the fire,” he said and lit a sparkler. “It will buy time for the friend and Carolyn to go to Montreal and find Bronson. He knows where André is, André knows all the details of the camp.”

A look of determination came over his face. “André is the only one who knows where my dam is. If you find her, please tell her I’m sorry I let her down. I promised her I would return safe from my last mission. But also thank her; the outside was as beautiful as she described.”

His mother is at the camp? Billy had so many more questions. But they lacked time, he would have to wait until Montreal to get his answers. Calvin then provided Billy with the remaining contents of his backpack, including his gun. A parting gift.

“What are you planning on doing?” Chuck asked.

“There needs to be a body here when the authorities search. I will be unrecognizable, so nobody will really be able to dispute the claim that it’s the body of the friend or Carolyn, without a full investigation and autopsy. By that time you will have the head start you need.”

Billy felt sick. “You can’t do this. Come with us.”

“The outside world is like a miracle. But no miracle will save me from being captured by the trainers. But Carolyn still has a chance.”

“You can’t be serious,” Chuck said.

But he was. Calvin doused himself with gas. Then in a split second, he grabbed one of Carolyn’s sparklers, lit it, and set himself on fire. Flames instantly engulfed him.

But he was clear and lucid. “You need to get away from the cabin. I put the motorcycle in here to cause an explosion to buy more time. Please move away—you must save Carolyn.” His voice became urgent, “You are her only chance!”

Billy and Chuck moved out of the doorway, but they couldn’t pull themselves away. Billy tried to look away from the incomprehensible sight, but couldn’t peel his eyes away. Calvin stood in a trance, painlessly melting before their eyes. Billy noticed a tear roll down his cheek—Calvin felt the pain on the inside. It meant he was alive, although he wouldn’t be for long. His arm fell off and then his legs collapsed. He then dropped to a kneeling position on the floor. It was as if he was peacefully praying.

The defiant words, “I just wanna tell him one more thing,” rocketed Billy from his trance. To his horror, Carolyn had broken away from Beth and Dana. She arrived at the doorway and froze. Like Billy and Chuck, she couldn’t turn away from the indescribable sight before them.

“I told you he was a firefly,” she said with wonderment.

Chuck grabbed her and turned her head away. They then ran to the cars. Billy couldn’t help but to take one last look at Calvin, who was well on his way to becoming nothing but dental records. Aliens would be more believable! But Billy also knew he was doing what he was trained to do—to make any sacrifice necessary to complete his mission. And in this case, his self-imposed mission was to save a fellow CIPA comrade, Carolyn Whitcomb.

They met at the cars. The instructions from Calvin were clear, and at this point nobody doubted his allegiance. But that didn’t mean the split would be easy. Beth had to be talked into it, and there wasn’t much time. The flames were swallowing up the whole area, the heat overwhelming.

Finally Beth gave in. She picked up Carolyn and said, “You are going to go with Billy, just like when he watched you when you couldn’t go to school.”

Carolyn was street smart, so she understood she was being sold a spin job. “How ’bout I got a better idea—I say we ride motorcycles and bikes.”

Beth squeezed Carolyn so hard that Billy thought she would break. “Mommy will always love you, sweetie, you know that, right?”

“I love you too, Mommy.”

“I want you to know that even though I won’t be with you, I’ll still be with you in spirit.”

“What’s spirit?”

“You know when you feel good in your heart?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that is Mommy’s spirit telling you that I love you.”

Carolyn removed the rose necklace and hung it around Beth’s neck. “Calvin said it keeps you safe. I want you to be safe to give me warm spirits in my heart.”

Beth broke into tears. “You’re a good girl. Mommy is so proud of you.”

Carolyn smiled her big, toothless grin. “I’m a giver.”

Chuck pulled Beth away. If he didn’t, she would never have let go.

“You and Billy are going to go to Montreal. Do you know what’s in Montreal, princess? Chuck asked her.

“The steak sauce?”

He smiled for a split second at the mention of Montreal Steak Sauce, her favorite topping to any meal. “Yes, but I was thinking about you and Billy going to a Montreal Canadiens hockey game.”

“I think I should get to play hockey again,” she said.

“If you’re a good girl for Billy, then we’ll talk about it when you get home.”

She gave him a big kiss on the cheek. “I love you, Daddy.”

“I love you too, princess. So do you understand what I just told you?”

“That Billy and I are gonna eat steaks and watch hockey.”

Close enough. He set her on the ground. If they waited another minute, their cars would be melted into the ground. Breathing was near impossible and everyone was coughing.

As Billy hugged Dana goodbye, he wondered if this was what it was like when Beth’s family split up at Grand Central. It had been over twenty years without a reunion for them. He tried to push any tragic Shakespearean comparisons out of his head.

They agreed to only call on their cell phones if it was a “going over the cliff” type of emergency. Dana gave Billy an ATM card, which he stashed in the backpack that carried the survival kit Calvin had provided him.

As Beth sobbed in the front seat of the pickup, Chuck removed the car seat and brought it to the Cherokee. It was like the symbolic passing of a torch.

Chuck sang a couple lines of “Sweet Carolyn,” as he strapped her into her seat. He then shook hands with Billy. “Take care of my princess,” he said, holding a powerful grip of hands, and glaring into Billy’s eyes, seeking assurance. It was understood.

The two cars sped off in different directions, passing fire trucks that were racing toward the fire. Then a huge explosion shook the ground.

The motorcycle had exploded in the cabin.

Chapter 43

As the hazy sun rose over the Adirondacks, Billy helped Carolyn board an Amtrak train at the Glen Falls/Fort Edward Station. His eyes moved around like a mosquito that just guzzled a Starbucks double latte. He was suspicious of everyone. The conductor, the French speaking couple beside them, the lounge car attendant, even a frail elderly woman two rows ahead of them who was talking hearing-aid loud about her grandchildren in Plattsburg.

The most important item in the Calvin-provided survival kit was fake identification he prepared for Billy and Carolyn. He’d obviously been planning their escape prior to last night. Billy studied the laminated ID card like a college student cramming for a test he was wildly unprepared for. His new identity was Chad Foley, and he was traveling with his daughter, Abigail.

They were forced to leave Calvin’s gun in the Cherokee, unwilling to risk being stopped by security. After his hunting experience, Billy doubted it would do him much good, anyway. They also left behind the sling for Carolyn’s arm, which likely would’ve served as an identifying mark for those in pursuit. To accentuate the fickleness of children, after weeks of complaining about it, she actually didn’t want to leave it behind.

After escaping the cabin fire last night, Billy maneuvered around in the Cherokee like a ship with no port. The degree of difficulty increased due to a certain four-year-old in dire need of a nap. He thought they found safe-haven at a commuter parking lot near the train station, but when a suspicious car arrived and shut its lights, he was on the move again. Actually, the car wasn’t that suspicious at all. Piled up newspapers in the back signaled it was a newspaper delivery driver taking a break. But Billy’s paranoia had overtaken all his senses.

They found refuge in an apple orchard and waited for the first train to Montreal at daybreak. Billy spent the rest of the night cradling Calvin’s gun close to his chest as if it were a newborn. But if Calvin was right, and at this point there was no evidence to refute him, those chasing them were straight out of the shadows of a spy novel. And he was sure a force that could get behind the enemy lines of Iran, wouldn’t have any difficulty penetrating an apple orchard in Glenn Falls, New York. What was he really going to do if they found them?

As they waited for morning, Billy had hoped Carolyn would nod off and get some needed shuteye. But no such luck. He tried to gauge her emotions, but she displayed an impressive poker face throughout the night. Billy was afraid to ask her for her reaction to the fire and shootout, expecting her to declare it to be “fun!” But he also knew the little girl was hooked-in emotionally to everything swirling around her. She likely saw the panic in her parents’ voices and could feel how scared they were. Just like Beth did the day she was abandoned.

When they found their seats on the train, Billy shut his eyes for the first time in two days. But as soon as his eyelids latched he was forced to re-watch the movie, Calvin Rose Burning, over and over in his head. This past month, the bar for what he found mind-blowing had risen to immeasurable heights. A girl who couldn’t feel pain was surreal. A possible covert military operation trying to abduct Carolyn was hard to get his mind to accept. But the sight of an unflinching Calvin Rose barbecuing himself was too much for him to take. Billy whipped his eyes open, hoping to wake from the nightmare. No such luck.

Carolyn continued staring ahead, stubbornly fighting off the Sandman. She was on fumes, only an internal survival mechanism keeping her awake. It looked like the life was drained from her face, her normally rosy cheeks ghostly pale. The drama and trauma of the past month had tested her mettle, especially the week she spent in the hospital. But this was the first time he’d seen the childhood innocence knocked from her.

“Are you okay?” he inquired.

“I smell icky.”

Their clothing reeked of burning fire. And Billy couldn’t dislodge the stench of Calvin’s burning flesh from his nasal cavity.

“You and me both. The good news is nobody will sit next to us and we’ll get more legroom.”

Not even a courtesy chuckle; tough crowd.

“We’ll get a change of clothes as soon as we get to Montreal,” he said in his most re-assuring voice.

“I wanna go home.”

“We will soon, but first we have to go to Montreal.”

“I need to go home and feed Puck.”

“Your mom will feed him for a couple days while we’re away.”

“I miss my mom and dad.”

“Me too.”

She began to tear up, returning her gaze to the back of the seat in front of her. “I’m having a sad day.”

Billy tried to wipe her tears, but she sharply turned her head away. He decided to let her alone with her thoughts. This was not the time to push her.

After some reflection, she hesitantly asked, “Are my mom and dad mad at me because I was nice to Calvin?”

“Of course not, they just want you to be safe. They love you very much and can’t bear to see you hurt. You know the rule: don’t talk to strangers.”

“Is that why I can’t go to school again, because I was a bad girl and talked to strangers?”

Billy reached deep inside and pulled out his best fake smile. “Actually because you’ve been such a good girl, your mom and dad wanted me to take you to a Montreal Canadiens hockey game for a special treat!”

Carolyn flashed a look that said, I might’ve fallen for that when I was three, but I’m four now.

They again morphed into a weary quiet. The train moved from the magnificent Adirondack Mountains to the shoreline of the massive Lake Champlain, which they would ride beside for about fifty miles. They made stops at Whitehall Ft. Ticonderoga, a famous fort built in 1775 by the French to defend against the British. At each stop, Billy eyed each new passenger, looking for any clue that they might be connected to Operation Anesthesia. But unlike the French, who knew what they were up against when they built Fort Ticonderoga, Billy had no idea who his enemy was, what they looked like, or where or when they would strike. He would have given anything for a symmetrical army marching toward him in red coats.

The train rattled by Lake Placid. He tried to cheer up Carolyn by telling her a great fairy tale about the 1980 US Olympic hockey team that won the gold medal in Lake Placid.

He paced the story like a novel, causing Carolyn to briefly perk up. The story had memorable characters such as the unrelenting Coach Brooks and the never-say-die captain named Eruzione, along with great plot twists like the miracle tie against Sweden. The story built to the climactic battle between the underdog US kids and the Soviet machine, the greatest hockey team in the world.

The ending was perfect. The US beat the Soviets, as the announcer uttered the now-famous line, “Do you believe in miracles?!”

“So the US team was the fireflies and So-vee-its were the dragons?” Carolyn asked, hanging on every detail.

She was right. All great battles throughout time come down to fireflies and dragons. And sometimes, like in Lake Placid, miracles do happen and the fireflies prevail. The question was, would they find a miracle in Montreal before the dragon found them?

“My daddy says you should never count out the underdog,” Carolyn added. Billy hoped he was right.

The hockey story must have siphoned Carolyn’s remaining fuel, because she drifted into a deep sleep, whistling a light snore.

Billy wondered about her dreams. She didn’t appear restless or tortured, but he knew if what she witnessed was allowed to fester inside her impressionable mind, it could leave some ugly scars where they hurt the most—on the inside—the place where she felt pain. So when she awoke following a bumpy stop at Rouses Point, he addressed the issue.

“Do you want to talk about what happened last night?”

“No.”

“You don’t have to. But I know I was scared, and when I’m scared it makes me feel better to talk about it. So do you mind listening to me?”

“My mom and dad were scared too.”

He knew it. “They were just worried about you. Sometimes grownups act weird when they care about someone.”

“Kind of like how you and Aunt Dana act weird around each other?”

He chuckled. “I think we’re just weird.”

“How come my mom didn’t want me to play with Calvin?”

“I think she thought he was a dragon.”

Carolyn looked befuddled. “How could someone mix up a dragon and a firefly? That’s silly!”

“Sometimes grownups lose the good vision they had when they were kids. They think they see stuff, but kids feel it. Feeling is always more accurate than vision.”

“I’m sure glad I’m not a grownup!”

“Me too.”

She giggled with innocence. “You are a grown-up, silly.”

“Sometimes I forget,” he said with a smile, before turning serious again. “Do you want to talk about what happened to Calvin?”

“Whataya mean?”

“When he was on fire.”

“He’s a firefly—he’s sposed to be on fire. He was just playing.”

“Fireflies are angels, right?”

“Of course, silly.”

“He was definitely a firefly then.”

Carolyn took a theatrical whiff of air. “I smell like a fireplace.”

“I told you—we’ll get new clothes when we get to Montreal.”

“Will they be warm and fluffy, like when my mom does the laundry?”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Are we almost there?”

“About ten minutes.”

“What are we gonna do in Montreal?”

He opened the Fodor’s travel guide he bought in the Glen Falls station and pointed out the mall where they would purchase the clothes.

“We are also going to visit Calvin’s brother, Bronson.”

“Can he come to the hockey game with us?”

“We’ll see.”

She smiled. When her dad said, “we’ll see,” it meant “yes, Carolyn.” Her energy level picked up. “That would be fun!”

Chapter 44

After being awoken by the news of the Lake George debacle, Dr. Naqui couldn’t get back to sleep. He needed to think, and his office was always the place he found solace to do so. So he arrived at his Manhattan office at five a.m. on Wednesday morning.

The simple recruitment of a young child had turned into a newsworthy forest fire. The parents reported the child as missing, and while nobody would say it, the public expectation was that the little girl had died in the fire.

He walked into his dark office and turned on the lights. He then immediately hopped backward, startled by the figure sitting in the chair behind his desk.

“Hello, doc, I figured you Johnny Jihad types always show up early for work.”

Naqui’s fists clenched as he peered at Franklin Stipe’s cocky grin. Stipe looked more Madison Avenue than military in a dark, double-breasted pinstriped suit. But his skin was shedding like a reptile.

“Did you come to gloat over your seamless performance last night?” Naqui asked.

Stipe either ignored, or didn’t comprehend the sarcasm. “I’m on my way to New Canaan this morning to conduct a little business at the Whitcomb residence, so I figured I’d stop by on my way and get me a cocktail. I had a tough night.”

“I think you are confusing terms. You had an incompetent night last night, just like you did in Iran. Isn’t there some baseball metaphor about three strikes?”

Naqui used a remote to turn on the flat-screen that hung like a painting on the wall. He flipped channels until he came to something called Good Morning New York, although for the life of him he couldn’t figure out what was so good about it. They were showing video—again—of the raging forest fire, along with a recent school photo of the “missing” Carolyn Whitcomb, sporting a toothless grin.

Naqui clapped sarcastically. “Bravo, Mr. Stipe, bravo. You are finally receiving the headlines you’ve sought.”

The news changed to a preview of today’s first day of the Senate hearings on the Iran hostages, headed by Senator Oliver LaRoche. Today’s star witness would be Kerry Rutherford, the U.S. Director of National Intelligence. The news just kept getting better and better.

“I hope that son of a bitch doesn’t sell us out. He wants out, you know,” Stipe tried to shift focus to Rutherford.

“He would never do that.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because unlike yourself, he is a great patriot. And he knows Operation Anesthesia has done God’s work in keeping this country safe. Anesthesia is like his child. And he will protect it like his child. Now tell me exactly what happened last night.”

“Can’t we do this inquisition after I get the shot?” He pointed to the syringe he had already set up on the edge of the desk, locked and loaded.

Naqui took the syringe into his hands. “No—we’ll do it now.”

Stipe pulled a gun. “Either I get that shot or you get this shot right between your eyes. Your call, doc.”

Naqui held the glass syringe loosely in his hand, so the pain remover would crash to the ground if a bullet struck him.

“Go ahead, Stipe, lose-lose propositions have become your M.O. Just remember, three strikes and you’ll be out.”

Stipe lowered the gun. Naqui knew he so badly needed the pain medication that he couldn’t think of anything else. “They were tipped off,” Stipe began what Naqui knew would be a laundry list of lies and excuses.

“Who would tip off this unsuspecting family? And even if they were, how come you still couldn’t take them down? You are a trained soldier.”

“I believe they are working with Calvin Rose.”

Naqui’s throat tightened. “Calvin Rose?”

Still seated in Naqui’s high-backed, leather chair, Stipe tossed some photos on the desk, which Naqui picked up in his manicured hands.

“The photos are from Monday, shot from a security camera at a Bank of America in New Canaan. We believe the man on the motorcycle is Calvin Rose, and the girl is Carolyn Whitcomb.”

Naqui’s fists clenched as he studied the photos. “Go on.”

“Calvin Rose also meets the description of the man wanted in a breaking-and-entering at the Whitcomb’s home this past Sunday. But I was able to snag these before the authorities arrived last night.” He tossed a zip-lock bag onto Naqui’s desk. It was full of human teeth and bone fragments. “They want us to think they are the remains of Carolyn Whitcomb or her friend Billy Harper. But my instincts tell me they belong to Calvin Rose, which means he will no longer be a problem.”

Operation Anesthesia possessed the only dental records on Calvin Rose, so they could easily match them, if it was him. He didn’t exist to the outside world.

Naqui walked to his window and looked out at the scurrying ants participating in the maddening morning rush. Many of them would discuss the testimony of today’s Iran hearing over dinner or drinks. Little did they know what really happened. Naqui was in the dark himself. “I need to know what the hell happened in Iran. And I need the truth this time.”

Stipe put his hands behind his head like he was performing a full-nelson wrestling move on himself. Naqui made it very clear that the sooner he told the true story, the sooner he could get the shot. Stipe grunted a pained sigh, and began.

“We just finished our mission outside of Yazd. The Mi-17 was hovering overhead with Jones piloting. The copter was parked about twenty-feet over the desert and the Anesthesia soldiers were climbing the rope to safety. Just another day at the office. I was in charge, making sure everybody boarded. André Rose was the most experienced member, so he stood beside me, assisting the evacuation. The helicopter’s rotors were whipping, sand was flying everywhere, and visibility was minimal.”

Naqui stood still, taking in every word, and trying to dissect the truths from the lies. Not an easy chore when it came to Stipe.

“Then all hell broke lose,” Stipe went on. “André Rose kicked my gun away. Before I could react, sand filled my eyes and I was blinded. But I did manage to see Bronson Rose shoot me in the shoulder. Then Calvin Rose launched a grenade into the helicopter. The copter began to hover erratically. I knew right away it was going down.

“You mean how you bailed on your men to save your sorry self?”

Stipe’s face contorted in anger, but was in too much pain to fight.

“Do you think it’s a coincidence they were brothers?” Naqui asked, even though he knew the answer.

“Why don’t you get your head out of your curry-smelling ass. Of course it wasn’t. There was a major breakdown in security.”

“Security is your responsibility.”

“Jones was running the day-to-day at the plantation while I was on assignment. I did a full audit of the situation and found major gaps in listening devices, especially in moments when the Rose children were alone with their mother. They obviously found the listening devices and were playing Jones for a fool. I have addressed the problem.”

“Stop trying to deflect the blame. Do you think that all three of the Rose children on that mission are in North America and working together?”

Stipe pointed at the bag of teeth. “I think you’ll find that Calvin is no longer with us. But yes, I believe André Rose and his brother Bronson are here.”

Naqui threw a fist into the air, showing rare outward emotion. They had to find the other two brothers or Operation Anesthesia would truly be over, as would they. “You lied to me, you son of a bitch!”

“I’m taking care of the problem. So don’t worry your pretty dot-head over it.”

“You’re taking care of it?” Naqui scoffed. “Do you at least know where the little girl is? She’s obviously not dead like those around her are trying to make people think.”

Stipe folded open the laptop computer on Naqui’s desk and angled it so he could see. He typed in numerous passwords and clearance codes at security checkpoints, before a sophisticated map sequence displayed on the screen. Naqui’s eyes were drawn to the blinking orange-dot that was tracking Carolyn Whitcomb’s movement.

“One thing your boy Jordan did well was plant that security chip in her back. If you notice on the GPS, they appear to be on a train headed toward Canada.” Stipe boasted, as if he wasn’t the one who lost them in the first place. He then punched keys and the map zoomed to a city level. It was sophisticated, but not their most sophisticated tracking system, which included video and voice tracking. Who would ever have thought they would’ve needed it with a four-year-old girl? Naqui thought with a sad shake of his head.

“I guess they think they’ll be safe north of the border,” Stipe said, his tone actually cocky. The man had moxie, if nothing else.

“Just like those cowards who tried to flee from their duty in Vietnam,” Naqui spat angrily, his eyes then shot daggers at Stipe. “What are you waiting for? You need to bring them in ASAP!”
Stipe nodded his head in the direction of his pain medication.

Naqui wanted to withhold it as a punishment, but needed Stipe at his best to clean up this mess. He applied the needle, and Stipe’s eyes rolled back in his head with ecstasy. “Ahh, doc, I want to smoke a cigarette after that.”

He then got up and began to walk away with his arrogant swagger. “We’ll cuddle next time,” he said, flashing his cocky smirk, “I’ll give your regards to the Whitcombs.”

Chapter 45

Billy and Carolyn arrived at the train station in Montreal, Gare Centrale, just past noon. Billy had never been to Montreal, and the first thing he noticed was how French it was. He thought the English/French ratio might be fifty-fifty, but found it to be as French as Paris. All the signs were predominantly in French, as was the chatter of the surrounding conversations.

“They talk funny,” Carolyn observed.

Surrounded by the congestion of travelers in the train station made Billy feel like a sitting duck, floating in a sea of potential sharks.

According to the Fodor’s guide, there were three real sections in Montreal. The historic section, filled with cultural landmarks and cobblestone streets. The modern downtown section featuring a skyline of glass office buildings typical of a major North American city. But they were going to the third section—the underground city—thirty kilometers of tunnels that networked the city’s shopping, dining, and major event areas.

The underground city took off in the 1960s when the metro subway was built, and expanded over time to become what the travel guide hyped as “the biggest underground network in the world.” In the harsh Montreal winters, one could theoretically walk downtown, hit all the major shops and restaurants, and never leave the comforts of climate control.

Billy wasn’t overly impressed, expecting something space age. It seemed like just a bunch of well-lit hallways surrounded by shopping and restaurants. It reminded him more of being in the airport than in the lost city of Atlantis.

Carolyn, on the other hand, was a believer. “An underground city looks like fun!” She then beamed as a subway came to a halt. “Can we go on the underground train?”

Billy didn’t like the idea of being locked in a subway car like a caged animal. If attacked, he preferred to have the option of escaping into the many underground tunnels.

Carolyn took the ‘no’ in stride, too tired to negotiate.

He saw how exhausted she was and couldn’t envision having to carry her. He needed her awake and alert. So he tried to keep her mind sharp by teaching French from his dictionary. He was talked into buying the dictionary by the clerk when he purchased his travel guide, and was now glad he did.

“Carolyn, do you know what they call the underground city in French?”

Her face perked up. While she wasn’t born with the ability to feel pain, she did inherit a relentless intellectual curiosity.

“Tell me,” she shot back in an excited voice, her stride quickening to match Billy’s.

“La ville souterraine,” he said with his best Pepé Le Pew accent.

“La ville souterraine!” she shouted back with the accent of a four-year-old with a damaged tongue.

The process continued.

“Bonjour,” he said. “It means hello.”

“Bonjour, Billy!”

They followed the signs to Place Ville-Marie, a cruciform office tower that was on the cover of Billy’s travel guide. It was connected by tunnel to their destination—Centre Eaton, the biggest mall in Montreal. Billy saw it as a good place to get strategically lost for a couple hours while they figured out the all-important second part of the plan. Which was, how the hell were they going to find Bronson Rose? But first things first, they needed new clothing, preferably of the “warm and fluffy” variety.

He took Carolyn to the GAP for Kids in Zone-5B of the mall. He initially got it mixed up with the Baby GAP, which led to a mini-meltdown, Carolyn insisting she wasn’t a baby. Maybe not, but she was definitely tired, and you can only beat the Sandman for so long. It was going to be a long day, and that was the good option.

They settled on a candy-striped, cotton sweater and a pair of khakis for the young lady. A pair of sneakers he thought would make good walking shoes, and Beth would be impressed that he also bought her a fall jacket for the October temperatures, which could sink into the low forties at night. He rounded out the outfit with a very French looking beret. The beret was to help conceal her identity, but it also seemed to make her happy.

Billy paid with cash. Their funds were limited, so they needed to ration. He would only use the ATM in an emergency. He didn’t need to give Operation Anesthesia any help.

He also purchased Carolyn a backpack, a compromise that allowed her to keep her hockey jersey. Her name was embroidered on the back, so putting it in the public garbage didn’t seem like a good idea. She kept the jersey in the backpack, but Billy got rid of the rest of the clothing in a garbage can located in a woman’s bathroom in Zone-4.

But Billy was deflated by the knowledge she had been traveling around with a large name-tag, or more specifically, a bull’s-eye on her back. How many other mistakes had they made? He couldn’t even calculate how far over their heads they were.

Chapter 46

Keeping on the move, they traveled to an upscale men’s clothing store in Zone-3. From his brief time in Montreal, Billy had observed that the style was black, black, and more black. So he purchased a pair of black jeans and black turtleneck. He also bought a black leather jacket, black boots, and black knit cap in case they went outside later. When in Rome, do as the Romans do.

He also noticed that everyone in Montreal had a cigarette plastered to their lips. Or a Cuban cigar since Canada didn’t have the same trade restrictions with Cuba as the US. So keeping with the when in Rome theory, he stopped at a specialty store and bought a pack of cigarettes. Carolyn settled for a box of candy cigarettes. He needed her at her best, and hoped the sugar might put some pep in her step.

He stashed his old clothes in a men’s bathroom in Zone-1, the ground floor. It was now time to eat. They hadn’t eaten since the post-hunting feast from the night before, which seemed like years ago.

They found a food court in the first zone and chose a glorified hot dog stand called Franx Supreme. It was a perfect match—they specialized in making hot dogs and Carolyn specialized in eating them. The hot dogs came with a side of poutines, which were Canada’s contribution to the quadruple bypass. A heavenly-evil combination of potatoes, cheese, and gravy that was deliciously delicious.

For some reason Billy’s paranoia subsided. Maybe it was the feeling of safety in numbers that the crowded food court provided. But he knew the feeling couldn’t be trusted.

Carolyn dug in to her hot dog like she hadn’t eaten in a day.

“You doing better?” Billy asked.

“I like shopping and eating, I won’t deny it.”

“I think in Montreal they might call it le shopping,” he said with a smile.

He took another glance at Carolyn, now slurping down her lemonade, with ketchup and mustard spread across her cheeks. And suddenly a feeling came over him like a sharp chill on a winter day. It was the overwhelming feeling of responsibility that comes with the knowledge that a young child’s life is at your mercy. It was clear his lone mission in this life was to keep Carolyn safe, even if it meant sacrificing his own life. And his paranoia returned with gusto.

“I like le shopping, but I’m still a little sad,” she replied.

“Maybe we should have a pity party for you then.”

A dab of excitement arose from her grimace. “A pity party sounds like fun!”

Billy’s eyes roamed each person in the food court. Any of them, from children to grandparents could have been a plant. It was overwhelming. Like a nervous habit, he reached into the pocket of his new black jeans. He pulled out the pack of cigarettes and lit up. Everybody else in the food court seemed to be doing it—when in Rome.

Carolyn’s face scrunched. “That’s icky.”

He puffed. “I only smoke when I drink, get divorced, or I’m running for my life,” he rationalized with a forced chuckle.

Carolyn’s face turned from disgust to inquisitive. “You got divorced?”

“I think in Montreal they would call it le divorce,” he tried to deflect, but there was no way to charm his way out of this one.

“My friend Carly’s parents got divorced,” she said, then had an epiphany. “And so did my friend Tori, and my friend Sam, and my friend Nicole, and my…well…a lot of my friends parents got divorced.” She was counting them on her fingers, but quickly ran out of digits.

“Do you know what divorce is?”

“When the daddy and the mommy yell at each other a lot and then move into different houses and tell my friends it’s not their fault.” Then she seemed to remember something. “They also get lots of gifts.”

“Something like that.”

“My mom and dad aren’t getting divorced, are they?”

“Of course not, they love you too much.”

“Carly’s parents didn’t love her?”

“That’s not what I meant. I’m sure Carly’s parents love her very much.”

Carolyn wasn’t listening, she was deep in thought. Billy didn’t interrupt her. It sounded strange to say about a four-year-old, but she was a deep thinker, and it was one of the things he enjoyed most about her. He was rarely around women who were. His mother surely wasn’t. He had many names for Kelly, deep thinker wasn’t one of them. The high school groupies before her weren’t, and neither were the bimbos like Kaylee who followed. Just because you go to college doesn’t make you a deep thinker.

Carolyn gathered her thoughts, before pushing on like a mini Mike Wallace, “So you got le divorced?”

“Actually I got kicked-in-the-balls divorced.”

Carolyn flashed a perturbed look at his stall tactics.

“I guess in Montreal they would answer your question by saying we-we,” he continued to filibuster, bad French accent included.

“I don’t haff to go we-we, silly, I just wanna know if you got divorced.”

Unable to divert a four-year-old working on two hours of sleep, he reluctantly came clean. “Yes, Carolyn, I did.”

The wheels were still turning. “Why?”

“My wife wanted to paint the chicken with somebody else, I guess.”

“Why would she do that?”

“Grownups do weird things sometimes.”

“Grownups are silly,” she said, before a look of concern overtook her face. “Were you sad?”

“For a long time I was, but then I found a new person to paint the chicken with and my pain started to go away.”

“Who?”

“You.”

She smiled. “We’re never getting divorced, Billy.”

“Stick together, remember?”

She held her nose. “If you get rid of those icky cigarettes we will.”

Billy tossed them onto the tray of ketchup-stained garbage. “Deal.”

They clinked Styrofoam cups and Carolyn offered him a candy cigarette. They were again a united front, but a united front facing a big problem—where to even start looking for Bronson Rose? Billy flipped through his travel guide searching for magical answers.

“Where would miracles occur in Montreal?” he mumbled out loud. They had to get to him before Operation Anesthesia got them.

Then he saw it.

He grabbed Carolyn’s hand and headed out of the food court. He knew where Bronson Rose was looking for his miracle.

Chapter 47

Built on the northwestern slope of Mount Royal, the octagonal dome of St. Joseph’s Oratory dominated the Montreal skyline. According to Billy’s guide, the dome that rests on top of the basilica was the second largest in the world after St. Peter’s in Rome.

With Carolyn by his side, Billy boarded a metro at McGill Station. The route swung to the south, before looping around to the western part of the city, where they got off at the Côte-des-Neiges stop. That left them only a short walking distance from St. Joseph’s.

The church was built in the early 20th century by the famed healer, Brother Andre Bessette. While working as the doorkeeper at Notre Dame College in Montreal, Bessette gained national prominence after an epidemic broke out at a nearby college, and he was credited with saving all souls. From that point on, he was hailed as a miracle worker and inundated with letters requesting his healing powers. At his death in 1937, he still received over eighty thousand letters a year. But what interested Billy most was that Bessette built this oratory as a tribute to St. Joseph, on whom he bestowed all credit for his miracles.

Bronson went to Montreal seeking a miracle.

The main church was massive, featuring striking stained glass windows and a grand altar. Mass wasn’t in session, but worshippers mingled throughout the colossal church.

Billy eyed each worshipper as he and Carolyn strolled up the center aisle toward the altar. Billy was on the lookout for a man who had some resemblance to Calvin, guessing that the brothers looked similar, but nobody met the description. But without a picture he couldn’t be sure. He felt like Robert Langdon, the hero from the Da Vinci Code, hunting through ancient churches for the Holy Grail. But Langdon was at least armed with a lifetime of knowledge on the subject. All Billy had was a ten-dollar travel guide and an exhausted four-year-old.

Billy continued his when in Rome strategy. He knelt before the altar and performed the sign of the cross. Carolyn followed his lead, thinking it was some sort of game. Billy noticed life-size wooden statues of the twelve apostles behind the altar. He hoped the wise men could help point him in the right direction.

After saying a few “I know we haven’t talked in a while, but I need all the help I can get right now” prayers, Billy took Carolyn’s hand and moved down a stairwell that led to a smaller crypt church. A larger-than-life, white marble statue of St. Joseph stole his eye, but nobody resembling Calvin Rose’s brother. Dejectedly, Billy moved on.

Behind the crypt was a room illuminated by hundreds of candles lit in honor of St. Joseph. The walls were lined with crutches donated by those convinced that they were cured by Brother Andre. In the shadow of candlelight, Billy spotted what he came for.

The man’s skin tone was lighter, but his facial features were strikingly similar. He wore a long sleeved black shirt, making it impossible to spot any type of rose tattoo he might have. He wore a necklace, but it hung under his shirt, making it indeterminable if it contained the rose insignia. They would have been easy identification markers, which is likely why he covered them. Operation Anesthesia trained their recruits to slip unnoticed into any situation. Now it was working against them.

The man’s eyes were in constant motion, as if he were scouting escape hatches. Billy knew he couldn’t afford to spook him. So he grabbed Carolyn’s hand, calmly walked her to the row of candles, and helped her light one. He was surprised that the fire didn’t make her squeamish after last night. Billy kept one eye on Carolyn, the other on the man he thought was Bronson Rose.

The man knelt down in front of the rows of candles. He performed a sign of the cross and began to pray, closing his paranoid eyes. Billy took a candle into his hand and knelt beside him. He needed to confirm his hunch, so he gradually moved the candle until the flame was burning at the man’s earlobe. He held it there for at least ten seconds. Billy had heard of people who enter such an altered state during prayer that they are oblivious to anything around them. But he knew it wasn’t the case here. The man didn’t even flinch—he couldn’t feel pain or temperature. They had found Bronson Rose!

Maybe miracles do happen in Montreal.

Bronson came out of his prayer like a sprinter out of the blocks, his temporary peaceful state had returned to frenzy. He bolted out of the room, exiting a back door of the church. Billy and Carolyn followed, keeping a safe distance. Bronson passed a splendid garden with life-size representations of the fourteen traditional Stations of the Cross. He then walked around to the front of the main church, and like many of the others who made the pilgrimage, Bronson began climbing the three hundred steps up the church from street level. On his knees!

Carolyn’s eyes widened. “That looks like fun!”

For Bronson and Carolyn, who felt no pain, the climb was a breeze. For Billy, who had numerous aches and pains he referred to as “old football injuries,” he found it…painful.

Upon reaching the top, Bronson re-entered the church. Carolyn wanted to “do it again,” but Billy sold her on a new adventure. In this one, she had to be as quiet as she could as they quietly followed Bronson into the area inside the church where Bessette’s tomb was on display. But just as fast as Bronson entered, he left, exiting through a side entrance to the church. Billy wondered if the roundabout route was designed to make sure he wasn’t being followed. This time Bronson descended the stairs by foot and headed up the blacktopped paths of Mount Royal.

Billy and Carolyn cautiously trailed Bronson to the top of the peak, which was only about seven hundred feet above sea level, but gave the illusion that they were standing atop Everest, looking down on the skyline of Montreal.

Billy examined Bronson from a distance, noticing that his hands shook continuously. His eyes danced from side to side. Whatever miracle he sought, he surely hadn’t found it yet. He was not at peace.

Billy had his own problems. He was not in what he would call “game shape” and his lungs burned as he followed Bronson through the steep paths of the mountain. Carolyn was able to maintain Billy’s tempered pace, her backpack bouncing lightly on her back. But he could tell her batteries needed to be recharged. On top of that, nightfall was beginning to descend upon Montreal, increasing their degree of difficulty.

When Bronson reached the bottom, he picked up a bus at Côte-des-Neiges. Billy’s heart sank—they had to catch the bus. He started running, but suddenly recognized that Carolyn no longer was by his side. He looked back to find her standing like a statue—she had nothing left. His eyes moved back to the bus and then returned to Carolyn. He ran back to her and hoisted her over his shoulder. He ran at the bus like a torpedo, shouting, “Wait!”

The bus did wait, but the desperate plea gave away any anonymity. Suddenly all eyes were on them, including Bronson’s. Billy pulled down his knit cap, Carolyn following suit with her beret. Not knowing how to work the transfer made them stand out even more. A French accent shouted from the back of the bus, “Stupid American!”

Billy escorted Carolyn to the back of the bus, fighting off any urge to make eye contact with Bronson as they passed by him. From the back of the bus, Billy could observe Bronson undetected. Unless he had eyes in the back of his head, and Billy wasn’t ruling anything out at this point.

Bronson’s body language was of a trapped rat. His leg tapped like an electric hammer and his dilated pupils were a festival of nervous energy. When the bus reached the Sherbrooke Avenue stop, Bronson made his move. He waited until just before the bus started to move and then bolted off. A tactic that would expose anybody following him. Like amateur hour, Billy and Carolyn got up and followed. Bronson looked back and locked eyes. Busted. The minute Bronson hit pavement he was in full sprint.

Billy hoisted Carolyn and pursued. His lungs wheezed in the cold night air, but he could still call on some of the skills that once made him a top-flight athlete, and was able to close some ground. “Wait—we just want to talk to you!” he yelled in desperation.

Bronson never looked back, running fearlessly with sprinter speed, eventually descending a stairwell into an underground metro station at Guy-Concordia. Billy picked up the pace, but was losing ground.

Billy gripped Carolyn tightly as he barreled down the stairs. He searched frantically with his eyes, in peril of losing their last hope. But then he spotted Bronson straight ahead, as did most of the people at the Guy-Concordia stop. He was the only person sprinting like Carl Lewis. Billy saw that he was making a dash for a waiting subway car.

Billy ran as fast as he could, pushing though the bustling crowds. Having Carolyn draped over his shoulder was slowing him down, but he refused to let it stop him. They just beat the closing doors of the subway and stood out of breath in the back of the car. He eyed Bronson—lengthwise down the car—who fiercely returned the gaze. It was like a showdown in the Wild West. Nobody moved—they were trapped.

When they arrived at the Pie-IX station, Bronson pushed his way through the crowd and out of the car, and was on the move again. Billy chugged after him, Carolyn bouncing on his shoulder as he galloped up the stairwell and exited the subway station. His shoulder ached—it was the one operated on in college—but compared to the steps of the church, it was a piece of cake.

The chase continued. They passed a concrete eyesore called Olympic Stadium that was built for the 1976 Olympics. Bronson ran like he was seeking his own version of a gold medal. But Billy noticed a change in his body language. It was as if he was no longer running from them, but instead, was running toward something as he veered left onto Hochelaga.

About a mile north on Hochelaga, Bronson disappeared into a dark, one-story building.

Moments later, Billy and Carolyn arrived, huffing and puffing. Billy read the sign, and couldn’t help but to laugh. He set Carolyn down and said, “I think you’re home, princess.”

The place was called Les Princesses.

Chapter 48

The helicopter floated over a vast, sepulchral lake. Nothing but the dark water could be seen in any direction. Then it suddenly began to descend—fast—down…down…down.

Beth could move her head, but that was all. She was strapped, paralyzed, in a space-age looking wheelchair. While she couldn’t move, she was cognizant of her surroundings. She tried to scream numerous times, but nothing came out. It reminded her of a medical documentary she’d watched about patients who awoke during surgery. The effects of their anesthesia had worn off and they were in mind-boggling pain, but unable to scream out. The cruelest of nightmares. And one that Beth was now living.

The sun was setting behind them, beautiful orange streaks filling the darkening skies. The doctor—the one who had paralyzed her and Chuck—told them they were traveling to heaven, and should relax and enjoy the trip. She visualized heaven in numerous forms over the years, but in no scenario was a fiery helicopter crash involved. But strangely, if she were dead, it would be the most normal thing to happen to her in a while.

The journey began that morning when an FBI agent named Hasenfus came to their home. He accused her and Chuck of faking the fire at the cabin. They had a prepared answer for that accusation, but what the FBI agent said next knocked her out of orbit. He claimed they had wrongly trusted Billy Harper, a man with a violent past, who was working with Operation Anesthesia to deliver Carolyn to them for a price. Hasenfus alleged to have learned this because Calvin Rose, an escapee from Operation Anesthesia, was working undercover for the FBI to take them down. But Calvin’s loyalties turned back to Operation Anesthesia, reneging on his agreement with the FBI. He ended up helping Billy seize Carolyn, and then committed suicide before the Feds could get to him. Hasenfus explained that those “attacking” them by boat were actually members of a FBI Task Force, who were trying to save Carolyn from Billy and Calvin.

To further his point, the FBI agent showed them disturbing pictures of a woman, her face badly beaten by her husband—Billy! By the guilty look on Chuck’s face, Beth knew he’d kept this news from her. Hasenfus theorized that Billy planned to deliver Carolyn to either Bronson or André Rose, and pushed her to give up Billy’s location so that they could “save” Carolyn.

Beth had made a pact with Chuck to not reveal that information under any circumstance, but now everything had changed. Billy could be dangerous, and he was in possession of Carolyn. Beth was about to scream “Montreal!” at the top of her lungs, when she remembered where she’d seen Hasenfus before. It had been bugging her since he showed up unannounced at the barn. He was the security man from Jordan Plantation. She didn’t know the exact purpose of his charade, but one look into his beady eyes told her that he was up to no good.

“I think you should wear sunblock, Mr. Stipe, to protect you from the ubee rays,” she said, blowing his cover. Carolyn’s instincts were correct once again.

She didn’t have much time to gloat over her discovery. She and Chuck were gagged, blindfolded, and stuffed into the back of a black sedan like a stereotypical scene from a mafia movie. When the blindfolds were released, Beth recognized that they were at Teterboro Airport in New Jersey, a place she’d flown out of on numerous occasions as a young girl on the Boulanger private jet. It was the airport of choice for many of the wealthy in the New York area.

They were transported onto one of the numerous Lear jets parked at Teterboro. Chuck struggled with the shackles on his hands and ankles, but Beth didn’t fight. Her thoughts were solely on her daughter, and her mother’s intuition told her that fighting these monsters wasn’t going to help Carolyn’s cause. She would do whatever it took to protect her. Even if that meant sacrificing his own life.

Hasenfus accompanied them onto the plane with two other burly goons, posing as FBI agents. They used the names Regan and Poindexter, which Beth recognized as players from the Iran Contra scandal, and there seemed to be some inside joke behind it. They sat on the tarmac for about half an hour before a Pakistani man boarded. He had salt and pepper hair and carried a black leather doctor’s bag, similar to those used back when house calls were en vogue. He removed a long needle from the bag and injected both Beth and Chuck. They were instantly paralyzed.

“Looks like my work’s done here—I’m going to pick up Carolyn. Expect her arrival by morning,” the cocky Hasenfus said as he arrogantly limped off the plane. A few minutes later, after taking Beth and Chuck’s vitals, the Pakistani also left.

Regan and Poindexter remained, along with a pilot. They flew to an open field in God-knows-where, and she and Chuck were transferred to a helicopter. Which brought them to the current predicament.

Just when it looked like they were about to crash into the lake, and they would need a miracle of Captain Sully proportions, land appeared. The helicopter found an oasis in the middle of a thick forest and touched down on the ground.

Regan and Poindexter ushered them off the helicopter. Beth had no idea where they were, but it looked familiar. The air was more humid than in Connecticut, although the lake provided a nice breeze. Mosquitoes gouged Beth’s skin, but she could do nothing about it.

“Welcome to Fantasy Island. Mr. Roarke will be with you shortly,” Regan announced, or maybe it was Poindexter, Beth wasn’t sure which was which. She assumed he was kidding, but nothing was outside the limits of possibility these days.

Then suddenly standing before them, flashing his charming smile, was not Mr. Roarke or his diminutive partner, Tattoo.

It was Dr. Samuel Jordan.

Chapter 49

Beth now understood where they were. The helicopter had brought them for a return visit to Jordan Plantation. But she got the idea that this trip would be less hospitable.

Jordan eagerly began telling the story of Operation Anesthesia like he was a peppy host of a late night infomercial. He boasted that the plantation had been the headquarters of Operation Anesthesia for the last twenty-plus years, and for the most part he confirmed the gist of what Calvin had told them at the cabin. He forgot to mention this on their first visit.

Beth was struck by how arrogant it was to have brought them here as invited guests just weeks ago. Like a dress rehearsal. But when Jordan mentioned that Kerry Rutherford, the head of US intelligence, was involved, she realized the conspiracy went all the way to the top and gave them good reason to be arrogant. The plantation was an impenetrable fortress, just like Operation Anesthesia. She felt her little remaining will evaporating into the muggy air.

Jordan took advantage of an audience that had no other choice but to sit and take in his every word. It sure wasn’t a children’s story, even if children were the main characters. He saved the most accolades for himself, asserting that when Anesthesia first began, it appeared to be one of those ideas that looked better on paper. The affliction was rare, so the pool of recruits wasn’t large. And a lot of capital was required to support Franklin Stipe, the supposed security guy, and his men scouring the world for recruits. And when they were successful, the captured children often had already mutilated themselves to the point of rendering them useless, or they were inflicted by fevers and overheating caused by CIPA. The overheating, especially since much of their work would be done in the heat of the desert, was a huge hurdle to overcome, but once again Jordan’s medical brilliance saved the day, coming up with a solution to cool the systems of the soldiers.

But Jordan understood that success wasn’t going to be determined by those who already had the genetic disorder. There was just too few of them out there. Success would come from breeding. He compared himself to Henry Ford, understanding that the key to the production of automobiles was not the automobile itself, but the assembly line to mass-produce them. It was a genetic disorder that needed both parents to pass it on. The focus turned to the parents, and like the automobile, Operation Anesthesia took off.

Beth now understood why she and Chuck were here—to breed more CIPA children! They weren’t just after Carolyn.

They traveled to the manor house, Jordan leading the way, practically skipping across the vast lawn as Regan and Poindexter followed, pushing Beth and Chuck.

“And let me assure you that you have nothing to fear. Carolyn will be arriving safely tomorrow without a hair harmed on her pretty head,” Jordan said.

Beth made desperate eye contact with Chuck. She knew just the mention of Carolyn’s name shot lightning through him. He struggled hopelessly, but his body remained cement. Beth so badly wanted to soothe his frustrations.

The manor house looked similar to their first visit, but felt different. Jordan stopped and turned to them. Beth wanted to run away from him—run for their lives—but could only sit helplessly in her wheelchair.

“You are here because of the extraordinary gifts you and your daughter possess. I did not choose for you to be here, you were called by a much higher power. The world is in a constant revolution of evolution, and whether you know it or not, you are revolutionaries.”

If Beth could have rolled her eyes, she would have. She settled for boring a hole through him with her steely gaze, but he appeared oblivious.

“I know change can be unsettling, but like I tell the children, we will soon turn those frowns upside down. And how could we not? An idyllic landscape, no bills, no debt, and none of the mindless pressures of everyday life. You will live in luxury and watch Carolyn, along with your other children, grow happily in a utopian world—no crime, no hate, no racism, no poverty.”

For some strange reason, Beth wasn’t feeling that thankful. Her frown remained upright and sturdy.

“Some would contend that living here would cost you your freedom of choice,” Jordan continued. “But that’s a fallacy. You are modern day royalty and will be treated like such. Royalty is not a choice, nor is it free.”

They moved down the stairs into the musty English basement. Regan and Poindexter carried the wheelchairs down the steps, and Jordan actually apologized for the 18th-century mansion not being “wheelchair accessible.”

The next stop was a wine cellar that Jordan had showed them on their initial visit. There, they boarded a service elevator. On there original tour, Jordan told an inquiring Carolyn that the elevator went to the boiler room. She negotiated to take a ride on it, convinced that Jordan must be Willy Wonka since he had an elevator in his house, and the elevator really would lead to a chocolate factory. But Beth now knew it didn’t lead to a chocolate factory or a boiler room, but something more sinister. Carolyn must’ve figured that out, at least in a general sense, which was why her mood suddenly spiraled during dinner. Beth scolded herself for not listening to her angel.

The trip down was dark and musty, the temperature dropping sharply. It was hard for Beth to tell how far it went down, but it was at least a few hundred feet. They exited into a well-lit tunnel. It appeared to be one of many tunnels that branched out like octopus arms. They were met by two men dressed in fatigues, carrying semi-automatic rifles.

Some utopian environment, Beth angrily mused, and was again frustrated by her inability to roll her eyes.

Jordan made small talk with the armed guards, listening intently to them as if they were patients at Jordan Children’s Hospital. After introducing his muted guests, Jordan strutted proudly down one of the tunnels, Beth and Chuck forced to follow, Regan and Poindexter pushing their chairs. They soon arrived in a futuristic looking laboratory, filled with computers, test tubes, and glass beakers.

“Welcome to Operation Anesthesia’s research facilities,” Jordan beamed. Then with a sparkle in his eye, and a game-show host wave of his hand at what looked like a fertilization clinic full of frozen embryos, he added, “As you can see, we have the top facilities in the world here.”

Jordan began rambling a tangent about the success of their research and development. But Beth cut through the doctor-speak—he was talking about breeding humans. Jordan was especially proud of a type of in-vitro fertilization where one specific sperm was attached to the egg, allowing the sex of the child to be pre-determined, along with features like eye and hair color. He claimed that they’d been performing this method for decades, though it is considered to be a new breakthrough in the outside world. He also claimed to have been responsible for scientific advances that allow the human sperm to live longer, widening the opportunity for conception.

“Please don’t be alarmed,” he cautioned with a smile, acting like he was reading their paralyzed faces. “We believe in creating life in the old-fashioned way. So you can expect to quite enjoy yourself during your stay. Your new children will not be created in a beaker or a test tube. I grew up working at a farm that trained thoroughbreds—a stud farm, if you will—fascinating stuff. I try to combine it into my medical research. The first thing I found is that the health and happiness of the stallion and mare is key to the whole environment. So much of this is psychological—I learn that every day from the children I work with.”

Beth felt sick. Please God—help Carolyn, she prayed.

“Chuck, I know you’re a big sports fan, so I’m sure you’ve heard of Seattle Slew, the great thoroughbred who won the 1977 Triple Crown.”

Jordan paused as if waiting for an answer. When he received no response, he continued, “What made Seattle Slew a true legend was not winning the Kentucky Derby or the Preakness, it was that he sired over a thousand foals. By studying horses like Seattle Slew, we’ve made amazing advances in human fertility, especially in regards to libido, and physical capabilities such as diet and exercise, along with learning the importance of stressing personal management and promotion.”

The tour continued down another corridor. This tunnel had a different look and feel to it. Gone were the cold, stainless steel research facilities. This hallway was lined with rows of wooden doors, almost like a hotel.

“This is the residential section of Jordan Plantation,” Jordan again read their paralyzed stares.

Behind one of the doors was a room that looked like the Presidential Suite at the Waldorf. It must have been five hundred square feet with a spacious living room, a luxurious bedroom with king sized bed, and a marble bathroom. On the bed were two his-and-hers bathrobes. A bottle of champagne was chilling in the wet bar. Jordan described the room as, “Having the classic sophistication of 18th-century plantation life mixed with modern luxurious comforts.”

“This is where Beth will reside,” Jordan continued. “Chuck, you will stay in what we call our stables, but it’s really a row of apartments on the other side of the property used to house the stallions.” With a sly smile he added, “We have found the old saying remains true—distance makes the heart grow fonder. It’s just not a Hallmark card, it’s science.

“But don’t worry, we encourage families in Operation Anesthesia to spend as much quality time together as possible. And soon Carolyn will arrive, and you’ll be together again.”

Beth’s heart had turned into a lava lamp, a new piece breaking away at each mention of Carolyn’s name. She was screaming in her head, but nobody could hear her. If she really were dead, then she had gone to hell and Jordan was Satan himself.

On cue, his grin turned devilish. “Chuck has an appointment right now for what we call a ‘Daily Reproductive Report,’ along with fertility tests and a full physical. But we will bring him right back to you when the tests are done, and by that time the drugs will have worn off. I took the liberty of setting up a romantic dinner to welcome you to your new home. The rest is up to you.”

Chuck was wheeled away, unable to put up a fight. Beth caught his sad gaze. She knew that he felt like a failure for not being able to help her and Carolyn. A tear rolled down her frozen face. He could always comfort her with just a look, but not this time. She wondered, if this place were so great, then why would a man choose to burn himself to death rather than come back?

The door shut, leaving Beth alone. But she was sure they were watching and listening. She envisioned Jordan and a bunch of creeps looking forward to watching her and Chuck make love like clinical porn, getting their jollies. She felt sick.

The effects of the heavy drugs began to slightly wear off. She still couldn’t talk, but now had use of her hands. She wheeled by her bed, noticing a wall chart hanging above the headboard. It read:

A

B

Carolyn

D

E

And so on, all the way to Z. She had no idea what it meant, but just seeing Carolyn’s name caused another piece of lava to break off her heart. She still couldn’t talk, but she screamed out in her mind, “Run Carolyn! Run to the light!”

Chapter 50

Billy pondered his options, searching for one that didn’t involve bringing Carolyn inside. But there were none. He couldn’t risk Bronson sneaking out a back entrance while they were watching the front. Plus, a man and child staking out a place like this were sure to attract attention. As if going inside wouldn’t.

Billy held Carolyn’s hand as they entered through the front door. He hoped when Carolyn described her Montreal trip to Beth, she would emphasize the visit to the church.

Their path was cut off by a brawny man with a shaved head. The bouncer. He wore a tight black T-shirt that read Multiple Sex Offender across the chest, and looked like an NFL middle linebacker who snacked on human growth hormone. He peered at Billy. Then at Carolyn. And a troubled look came over his bloated face.

He spoke perfect English. “I’ve seen some sick shit doing this job, but you win first prize, buddy.”

Billy pointed at Carolyn. “Can you watch the language around the kid?”

The bouncer shook his head with disgust. “What she hears in this place is the least of her worries. You do know what this place is?”

“I know how this looks,” Billy conceded.

“Yet you did it anyway. I hoped you were mentally ill, but actually you’re just a pervert.”

Billy nervously fidgeted. His eyes continually left the bouncer as he spoke, distracted by thoughts of Bronson in the next room. He came off like a crack-addicted pedophile and he knew it.

“It’s a long story. I don’t have time to explain, but I need to get in there.”

“Fine, go ahead before you make a mess in your pants, but the kid stays with me.”

That wasn’t an option—she couldn’t leave his sight. Everybody’s a suspect.

The man crossed his arms across his heaving chest. The answer was a resounding no.

“What if she promises to put her hands over her eyes? We won’t be here long, I swear. I just have to meet someone.”

“Your dealer?”

“I have to get in there,” he pleaded.

“There are a couple hundred strip joints and fetish clubs in Montreal. Why don’t you take your perverted ass to one of them?”

Billy had one last option, outside of trying to fight the man who looked like he would enjoy pummeling his “perverted ass.” He reached into his wallet and scrounged up a hundred and twenty-five American dollars, the last of their traveling money. He slipped it to the bouncer.

Money talks and pervert walks. The bouncer pocketed the money and said, “Just don’t come blaming me when she’s dancing the pole for drug money.” He then waved them in, a disgusted scowl on his face

Billy instructed Carolyn to put her hands over her eyes until he told her to take them off. She followed his orders.

Les Princesses looked like a sports bar with mounted televisions and colorful beer advertisements littering the wall. But a couple of things were different. First, there weren’t football or hockey games playing on the television. From the moans and groans alone, Billy knew it was hardcore pornography. A typical strip club would’ve been the lesser of the evils. He looked down at Carolyn, her hands still plastered over his eyes. There weren’t enough hands to cover her ears. God help me, he thought.

The waitresses wore only thongs and platform heels. Billy and Carolyn were seated by a naked French girl; her soft features said she was probably in her late teens. She had jet-black straight hair, sort of like Cher back in the day, and that’s where Billy kept his focus. She seated them, and cheerfully spread plastic menus on the table as if they were at the Olive Garden. “Your waitress, Angelique, will be with you in a moment,” she said in a sweet French accent and strutted away.

Billy looked around the dark, shadowy porn bar. The crowd was not the uppity French, leather crowd. It was the blue-collar, bad mullet crowd, almost straight out of a Steelers bar back in Johnstown. He spotted Bronson sitting at a table across the room. He was so glued to the porn that he wouldn’t have noticed Billy and Carolyn if they started doing naked Karaoke on top of their table.

Their waitress sashayed to their table. While most of the naked waitresses were in the “under thirty” age demographic, Angelique was older, although probably not as old as she looked, and gave off the impression she’d been livin’ the hard life a little too hard. Her bad blonde dye job couldn’t hide her tar-colored roots, she had a topographical map of lines on her face, and it looked like she’d gotten the senior discount on the boob job.

“Bonjour,” she greeted them.

“English,” Billy said.

“Can I get you something to drink?”

“Coffee for me,” he looked at Carolyn, hands still over her eyes, “and milk for her. Do you have strawberry milk?”

“Chocolate.”

“That’ll do.”

Angelique turned her attention to Carolyn. “Well, aren’t you a cute thing.”

“I’m actually a princess,” she said. It was a good thing she couldn’t feel pain, because it would be impossible to hold hands for that long in the same position if she did.

“Then you came to the right place,” Angelique said and turned her attention to Billy, “Is it your daughter?”

“No, she’s a friend.”

The woman didn’t blink at the strange statement, or even raise an eyebrow at the child’s presence. “I’ll be back for your order in a few moments, can I get you anything in the meantime?” she asked casually.

He remembered that he just spent his last money to scar Carolyn for life. “Do you a have an ATM machine?”

She turned her naked body and jiggled a point toward a far corner. Without taking his eyes off Carolyn, Billy moved to the machine and took out three hundred dollars with Dana’s ATM card, knowing he just did a big favor for those looking for them.

When Billy returned to the table, he focused on Bronson. Angelique was his waitress too, and maybe more, because the two of them went off to the bathroom together. Billy thought about following—what if he’s escaping out a back entrance?—but he decided against it. Cornering the Special Ops trained soldier in a small bathroom seemed like a good way to get himself killed.

Suddenly Carolyn blurted out, “Okay, I’m ready for my surprise! Ready or not, here I come!”

She removed her hands from her eyes and stared in wonderment. “Wow, I didn’t know Les Princesses didn’t wear clothes!”

Billy tried to cover her eyes with his hands, but the cat was out of the bag, so to speak. He rationalized that if she could witness a man burn himself to death, then how bad could a little nudity be?

“It’s just their birthday today, so they’re wearing their birthday suits.”

“I like birthdays.”

Bronson exited the bathroom with Angelique at his side, stealing away Billy’s attention. By the look on his face, he seemed to like birthdays also. And his preoccupation was working in Billy’s favor. Bronson hadn’t even as much as glanced in Billy and Carolyn’s direction since they arrived.

When Angelique returned to their table, Billy requested a move to a “porn free” section of the place, if there was such a thing. She obliged, leading them into a corner room. From there, Billy could still strategically view Bronson, but could shield Carolyn from the debauchery. Angelique replaced the porn on their television with the Canadiens game, which enthralled Carolyn, even if she did mention multiple times that they were sposed to watch it in person.

They then ordered food. Just a late night trip to Denny’s, Billy tried to convince himself. Pancakes for Carolyn, while Billy got the le Camionneur—French for “The Trucker”—that featured three eggs, three meats, French toast and feves au lard.

As they munched on their food and watched the Canadiens take a one goal lead over the Boston Bruins, both Bronson and Angelique got up and left. Angelique had put on clothes, but not much.

Billy immediately picked up an exhausted Carolyn and began to follow, forcing her to leave the remains of her syrup-doused pancakes. They passed the scowling bouncer as they shot out the door. Luckily, it was hard to miss the peroxided locks of Angelique in the distance. But not so luckily, Bronson had also spotted them. He grabbed Angelique’s hand and began to run, practically dragging her in her towering platform heels.

“Calvin sent us!” Billy yelled in desperation.

But they couldn’t hear him. Angelique used her assets to flag a cab and they sped south on Hochelaga. And just like that, they were gone.

Chapter 51

Billy figured he could spend the upcoming days scouting out St. Joseph’s Oratory and Les Princesses. But he knew it would be futile. Bronson would be long gone by the time the sun rose over the St. Lawrence River. And with their own hourglass running out of sand, Billy had to find him, and find him now.

He studied a map in his travel guide. Where would they go? The heavily populated St. Catherine’s Street was close by, and the most obvious choice. Or maybe Bronson would return to the Oratory, looking for one final shot at a miracle. But Billy doubted that. Bronson was trained to be cold-blooded smart in these types of situations. He wouldn’t return to any location he suspected he’d been followed to.

According to Calvin, Bronson came straight to Montreal not long after they had escaped from Iran, looking for the miracle cure for CIPA. Using that timeline, he’d only been in the area a couple months and most likely didn’t have any money.

He again stared at the map, thinking that Bronson must reside close to Les Princesses. It wasn’t the kind of place you hear about, it’s a place you bump into one day. And since Bronson seemed to be spending most of his free time in a church that was on the opposite side of the city, he doubted he heard of it via word of mouth.

Then something gave Billy pause. Just a few streets to the west, running north and south, was St. Joseph’s Boulevard. Technically, Bronson came to Montreal to look for his miracle, but more specifically, he was making a pilgrimage to St. Joseph’s Oratory to find it. Billy could visualize Bronson, fresh to the world outside the camp, naively telling a cab driver to bring him to St. Joseph. The driver brought him to St. Joseph Boulevard, instead of the cathedral of the same name, and once there, any good soldier knows to set up camp first.

Billy knew he was grasping at straws, but it’s all he had at this point, so he instructed their cab driver to bring them to St. Joseph’s Boulevard. They exited in a section called Le Plateau. It was an eccentric neighborhood that reminded Billy of Greenwich Village. Even at such a late hour, there was an energy in the air. Street musicians strummed acoustic guitars, while ethnically diverse groups of revelers mingled about, seemingly in no hurry. The preferred form of transportation was bicycles of all makes and models. There were very few cars. It seemed like a place where a guy like Bronson Rose could fade into the eclectic background.

They didn’t walk far before hearing a sound Billy recognized. It had been over a month since he was with someone—Kaylee Scroggins—but he knew all too well the sound of loveless sex. It was different, almost like two animals wailing in the wild. Never the soft giggles of people in love.

He followed the sound toward a duplex apartment building. Under its exterior staircase, he found a shirtless Bronson Rose with his pants around his ankles, and Angelique kneeling before him.

“Is she praying?” Carolyn asked with a curious look.

Billy wasn’t touching that one. And he didn’t have time, anyway. In a matter of seconds, Bronson was zipped up and pointing a gun right at them.

“What do you want?” Bronson screeched. He kept nervously moving the gun back and forth between Billy and Carolyn. His paranoia was on the ledge, ready to leap.

Angelique didn’t appear the bit embarrassed by her somewhat awkward position. She methodically stood and re-attached her bra, then pulled her halter-top over her head.

“I need to talk to you,” Billy addressed Bronson.

“You’ve been following me all day. The church—the bus—Les Princesses.”

“Calvin sent me. I didn’t want to alarm you—I just need to talk to you.”

He looked older than Calvin. And now seeing him without his shirt, Billy noticed burn marks on his chest. The scars of war. A medallion of a long-stemmed rose hung over his heart as if it were protecting it. He also had the matching rose tattoo. His eyes were old, but had a childish naiveté to them. Kind of like an Alzheimer’s patient.

Bronson focused the gun on Billy’s dimpled chin. “Nobody’s bringing me back to the camp, do you hear me? You go back and tell the trainers that!”

“I’m not with the trainers.”

“I will not fall for your lies. Only the trainers would know about Calvin escaping.” His eyes began jitterbugging. “Where are the rest of them? You are trying to distract me to allow your squad to execute a raid. I know the tactics as well as you.”

“I’m not with the trainers or Operation Anesthesia. Calvin came to me—he saved Carolyn—she has the anesthesia.”

Carolyn knew the drill. “I can’t feel my boo-boos.”

“Then she won’t feel a thing when I shoot her,” he said, pointing the gun toward her rosy cheeks.

She didn’t seem fazed by the threat, and asked Bronson, “Are you a hunter?”

The question frazzled him. “Why do you say that?”

“Then why do you got a gun?”

“To protect myself from the trainers.”

“My daddy is a hunter.”

He pushed the gun to her temple. “Using a foal with anesthesia to lure me is an evil trick, even for the trainers.”

“I’m not with the trainers,” Billy argued.

“Please put the gun down, baby,” Angelique tried to soothe the situation. “Let’s go upstairs. These people mean you no harm.”

Bronson didn’t budge. The gun remained locked on Billy and Carolyn, again alternating the deadly point back and forth between them.

“Calvin told us about your pact. The triangle. Only Calvin knew where you were, and only you know where André is. And he told us about the tattoo and necklace,” Billy begged, he knew a trainer wouldn’t know that. And Calvin was trained not to give in to torture if the trainers had found him. He would never have told of their pact. At least that’s what Billy was counting on.

Bronson held the gun at Billy for a few more seconds, and then lowered it.

Chapter 52

Without a word, Bronson climbed up the exterior stairs of the duplex.

They followed.

As soon as the door to the apartment opened, Billy felt sick. Garbage was strewn everywhere. Food was littered over the floor, broken glass from a mirror on the ground, and it smelled like urine. It looked like hurricane footage. Bronson wandered away to the other side of the apartment, seemingly lost in his own world.

Carolyn put her hands over her nose. “Icky.”

“Welcome to the world of a heroin addict,” Angelique softly said.

Billy remembered what Dr. Carlson said about the emotional toll CIPA took on those afflicted, leading to fearless lives that were full of reckless sex and drug abuse. The apartment hadn’t been broken into—Bronson did this himself!

“Where did you meet him?” Billy asked Angelique.

“He was wandering around St. Joseph’s Boulevard a couple months back. He talked about getting out and escaping, which I assume meant jail. I’m not one to judge, so I tried to help him. But I’m worried about him.”

“Did he mention looking for a miracle, or anything about the anesthesia?”

“If he keeps doing that shit,” she pointed to the railroad tracks on his arm, visible from across the room, “then he’s going to need a miracle, and that needle is the only anesthesia he knows.”

“How did he get hooked on it?”

“It’s pretty readily available along St. Joseph’s,” she said, then thought for a second, troubled by something, “but there was also something different about Bronson.”

“How so?”

“He lives life with a fearlessness I’ve never seen before. Like a little child in an adult body who doesn’t understand consequences. He engulfs food, sex, and any drug he can get his hands on like a kid in the candy store.”

“How was he able to get an apartment without a job or money?”

“I rent both apartments in the duplex. I live next door, and I’m loaning him this one.”

“That must not be easy on a waitress salary.”

“It’s a business expense. Before Bronson, I used this apartment to entertain my clients.”

He didn’t need further explanation. Her “business” was the oldest profession.

“Do you believe these people are really after him? The trainers,” Billy asked.

“All I know is he overdosed three times in the last month. He refuses to go to the hospital and the only time we could get him there was because he slipped into a coma. He has Hepatitis-C and an infection in his heart. He is killing himself. I’m sure these people he believes are chasing him will do less damage than he’s doing to himself.”

Bronson sat at a modest kitchen table, looking like he might explode. Angelique moved to him and calmly took a seat beside him. She then applied the soothing needle into his arm. He had no idea he was destroying his body, and despite Angelique’s caring demeanor, she was an enabler. She added another train track to his arm. Choo-choo.

Billy gave Carolyn a once-over. In the last twenty-four hours she’d been involved in a shootout, watched a man burn himself to death, and was separated from her parents. Now she was in an unsanitary apartment witnessing a prostitute inject a heroin addict with a dirty needle. Yet her biggest complaint was she didn’t get to attend the Montreal Canadiens hockey game, as promised. Sometimes ignorance is bliss.

The heroin seemed him to momentarily focus Bronson enough to address Billy, “Calvin would never given you that information unless he was in trouble.”

Billy remained silent.

“What happened to him?” Bronson pushed.

Billy looked at the gun lying on the table and didn’t want to set him off. “He’s…umm…he’s…”

“He’s a firefly,” Carolyn chimed in.

Bronson immediately deciphered her kid-code. He understood that Calvin was dead. He mumbled that it was what Anesthesia soldiers were trained to do when there was no way out. Protocol. He looked like he wanted to cry, but was either too numb or didn’t know how.

He began rambling about how they arrived in New York via a cargo ship they stowed away on, and would spend most of their days watching television in department stores, learning about the outside world. Bronson mumbled how he wanted to bring Calvin with him to Montreal, but that André didn’t think it would be safe—they had to split up—so he left him in New York to fend for himself.

Another bad result from a family splitting up, Billy sadly thought, feeling Bronson’s regret from across the room.

Angelique hugged Bronson, burying his head into her store-bought balloons. It gave Billy enough time to slide the gun safely away.

Billy knew he didn’t have much time if he was to get the answers he needed, insensitive or not. “Where is André?”

“He was going back to get our dam out of the camp.”

“Where is the camp?”

Bronson stood, and then sat. It was like he was on fire and could feel it. He was spastic. “I don’t know—I can’t think.”

“Think hard, Bronson. Is he in the United States? Here in Montreal? Where?”

He said nothing.

“This is really important, Bronson.”

“I don’t know,” he whimpered.

Billy moved on. “Who is after you?”

“The trainers.”

“Who do the trainers work for?”

“The doctors.”

He was getting nowhere. Bronson’s mind was mush.

Bronson began violently picking at his face with a nervous twitch, not feeling a thing. Angelique took his hand and mercifully led him to the bedroom, explaining to Billy, “He is usually better in the morning. He can answer your questions then.”

Angelique emerged from the bedroom about an hour later without Bronson. “He always talked about Calvin. He worried about him. Your news sent him over the edge. He’ll be better in the morning,” she tried to assure, but wasn’t very convincing.

Billy sat silently with Carolyn among the sea of garbage.

“Anything I can do for you?” Angelique asked.

He flashed her a disapproving look.

“Not that. I mean are you hungry, or thirsty?”

He had lost his appetite, maybe forever.

“I need a bath,” Carolyn blurted.

Angelique smiled. It was motherly. Billy could tell she had, or still has children.

“The bathroom in my apartment next door is clean. I wouldn’t give a rat a bath in this place.”

Billy couldn’t let her take Carolyn, but agreed that she really could use a bath. Especially since tomorrow could be just as long of a day. But he also had to keep an eye on Bronson—he couldn’t let him get away.

So with gun in hand, Billy moved out onto the exterior stairs in between Angelique and Bronson’s apartments like he was on guard-duty. He occasionally checked in on Bronson who had crashed into a deep sleep, his breathing shallow. Billy eventually became convinced he couldn’t go anywhere if he wanted to. He definitely wasn’t faking as part of an escape plan. So he felt safe to go next door, where Angelique was skillfully giving the little girl a bath. They were both giggling. Beth is going to kill me, he thought to himself.

Carolyn stood in all her nakedness, except for the bubbles in her wet hair, and waved at him. He waved back, before turning his attention to Angelique. He wondered what had gone wrong. Why, instead of giving comforting baths to children, was she giving more insidious comforts to her junkie neighbor? She fitted Carolyn with a towel and dried her hair. Billy had done his best the last twenty-four hours, but sometimes a little girl needs a female touch.

The thought of returning to Bronson’s apartment made Billy queasy. But he couldn’t risk him making a getaway when he was “better in the morning.” So he cleared off a crusty couch, hoping to avoid hypodermic needles, garbage, broken glass, or worse. Billy didn’t like sleeping on the sheets in hotel room, so sleeping on this thing would take some getting used to.

He had Carolyn sleep on top of him to avoid touching anything. It wasn’t very comfortable, but her damp, freshly shampooed hair was the first pleasant aroma he smelled since the fire at the cabin. Her little heart beat next to his—the soothing sound of life. To make sure it kept beating, he kept Bronson’s handgun nearby and one eye open.

Morning arrived, as did Angelique. She was a haggard sight, the morning sun had aged her by ten years. Billy decided to let Carolyn remain sleeping for the moment—she could use all she could get. He let her continue to snore away as he escaped the urine-smell of the apartment, seeking a whiff of fresh air. He stood on the exterior stairs of the duplex and looked out at the many bikers energetically maneuvering through the Plateau on Thursday morning. It was the first calm he’d felt in days.

It didn’t last long.

He heard Angelique scream.

As he turned, he felt her bump into him, causing him to lose his bearings. She shot down the stairs and dashed into an alleyway, screaming hysterically.

Billy’s first thought was, Carolyn! He ran back in and saw her standing in the middle of the garbage barge that was masquerading as an apartment, and felt relief. He also saw the door to Bronson’s bedroom door open. He ran into the bedroom, tripping over garbage.

Billy knew immediately. Bronson’s skin was gaunt and cold to the touch. He checked the pulse, then the breathing. When all hope faded away, he pounded on Bronson’s chest and shouted words Carolyn wasn’t allowed to say. Bronson was his last hope. He was supposed to be better in the morning.

Billy covered him with a sheet, hoping that wherever he ended up he could finally feel some pain. Billy then gathered Carolyn and headed back to the train station.

There were no miracles in Montreal.

Chapter 53

The tapping of Dana’s heeled leather boot on the floor of the cab didn’t make it go any faster. New Canaan cabs were definitely cleaner than New York City cabs, but in New York when you say step on it, the accelerator hits the floor and a red light is disregarded. In New Canaan, the driver looks to step on a bug and save their power shopping clientele. She nervously tapped some more. She had to get to Chuck and Beth to tell them what she learned about Billy. Carolyn’s life could hang in the balance.

Dana took out her cell phone and dialed Beth again—nothing. She hung up and pinballed to her voice mail. A new one from Sam Spiegel, who predictably wanted something in return for the information he provided last night. She decided to avoid the rear-view mirror, erasing the message.

Yesterday an FBI agent named Hasenfus came to her office and accused Billy of working with Operation Anesthesia to kidnap Carolyn. He declared that Calvin was working undercover for the FBI to bring down Billy and Operation Anesthesia, and that the attack was a setup meant to trap Billy. But Calvin turned his coat back around, and helped Billy to flee with Carolyn before committing suicide.

To make his point that Billy was a “bad guy,” Hasenfus provided pictures of a bloody and beaten Kelly Klein. While the pictures were horrifying, Dana didn’t believe Hasenfus. Her record with men wasn’t great, but she knew Billy was different.

She would readily admit her initial callback wasn’t because the plot synopsis of Ain’ t No Senator’s Daughter was so brilliant or his generic query letter stood out. It was good, but so were hundreds of others she received that month, despite never actually selling a book. And it’s not like she enjoyed reading political thrillers. She was more of a chick lit kinda girl.

What made her call was the photo he paper-clipped to his very brief writing bio. Rugged handsome, the dimple on the chin, and eyes that said this man had an interesting story. But when he arrived in her office, everything changed. He still possessed the exterior that made her pick up the phone, but was different from the picture. He was like a beautiful painting that had been lost in the basement and was covered in dust. She wanted to take him home and take care of him like a lost puppy. It was a family trait.

And as they began to work together, she found that he was different from any man she’s ever come across—different because he represented hope. Hope that she could end her painless existence. She knew it would take a long time for Billy to give away his heart again, but he would, she was sure of it. And just the thought of it gave her courage to think that one day she would be able to open her own heart. That’s why she never told Beth about what she’d heard on the radio. A decision she was living to regret.

The bulldozing through magazine-cover-attractive boyfriends, the trying-too-hard to prove she’s happy smile, and living her life with the freedom of a butterfly were just defense mechanisms to ensure she never would have her heart broken. No pain ever again. But what she found was that painless meant lifeless. Pain was part of life—it made you know you were alive.

She knew when she first started to numb the pain. The exact day. The exact moment. She was nine years old and in third grade. They had recently moved from Albany to Greenwich. Her mother had given up her professorship at Siena, but she still remained active in politics, and was speaking at a seminar that day. Her father was supposed to pick her up at school. He never showed—not a shock. So her teacher, Mrs. Carney, brought her home. Dana used her latchkey to enter the large mansion. That’s when she saw her father with that woman. She just stared at them for what seemed like hours. She tried to scream but nothing came out. She was paralyzed.

He was always so attentive to her after that. Daddy’s little girl. His favorite. Daddy could never say no to Dana. She would always keep their “little secret” and in exchange she would get anything she wanted, including adopting Beth. But she didn’t get everything she wanted—what she really wanted was to open the heart he closed. She still went to visit him each year on his birthday at the convalescent home. Everybody believed it was out of devotion to her stroke-stricken father, but her real motivation was to see if his mush-mind would be lucid for just a brief moment, so he could see what he did to her. She hoped Billy would be the one to convince her to stop making those trips.

That’s why what Agent Hasenfus said couldn’t be true.

But then she got a call from a mistake from her past named Sam Spiegel, who worked for the Washington Post. She had asked him to look into the “incident” after she heard the report about Billy on the radio. From Sam’s initial research, she deduced that LaRoche wanted the incident covered up—prosecuting Billy would have connected him to an extra-marital affair with the victim, harming his political ambitions. But it didn’t answer all of her questions about Billy. She understood that a cheating wife could make a man do crazy things, but she still had trouble picturing the lost puppy turning into a dangerous rottweiler.

Then last night, Sam filled in the blanks. He had continued his investigation beyond her initial inquiry, and using an ex-member of LaRoche’s security force as his source, he uncovered what really went down that night, including that the incident took place in LaRoche’s house in D.C. When Sam finished, she understood why Billy didn’t want to talk about it, including the real source of his pain that night, and actually felt sorry for him. But then a horrifying thought filled her mind.

She dropped the phone and ran to his manuscript. She had memorized the ending, but re-read it twice to be sure. When the dark hero stole the child to fill the hollow hole in his heart. She was convinced Hasenfus was wrong about Billy working with Operation Anesthesia to deliver Carolyn. But that was because Billy wanted Carolyn for himself! It all made sense now.

The cab arrived in front of the barn. All cars were accounted for: her BMW, Chuck’s pickup truck, and Beth’s minivan, but nobody answered the door. She used her key to enter, calling out their names. She checked every room, running awkwardly in her heeled, knee-high boots, which she wore with a fashionable beige fall sweater and pencil skirt, hanging just above the boots. She tied her hair into a ponytail, which was the Dana equivalent of rolling up the sleeves, and ran back to the kitchen area. They had vanished.

Sitting on the kitchen table was a yellow mailing envelope addressed to Beth. On it was a note from Evelyn, explaining that she came by last night before returning to Florida for the winter, but nobody was home. So she left the package containing items Beverly wanted Beth to have following her death. Only a year late, Dana thought. But it did help her to construct a timeline. If something happened to Beth and Chuck, which was looking pretty likely, it must’ve happened prior to Evelyn coming by last night. Beth and Chuck rarely went out on nights their daughter wasn’t “missing.” Dana slipped the package into her oversized handbag.

She then moved into Beth’s office, surprised to see her BlackBerry lying on the desk between piles of political science textbooks. She even took it camping! Something was very wrong.

Dana pulled out her cell phone. They had made a pact at the cabin to only contact each other in the most extreme of emergencies. This would qualify. She doubted Billy would answer, but to her surprise he picked up on the second ring.

“Dana—is everything okay?” Billy sounded alarmed.

Be calm. One mission: get Carolyn to safety.

“Chuck and Beth are missing.”

“What? Missing?” He sounded surprised.

“Is Carolyn with you?”

He hesitated. “Of course, where else would she be?”

“I think we need to meet up.”

“It’s too dangerous.”

“I’m not asking, Billy.”

He sounded surprised by her tone. “We’re about to board a train.”

She knew the schedule by heart. Her last semi-serious boyfriend owned a ski lodge in Vermont and she used to make the trip every weekend by train. She was also familiar with the Albany area, from both her childhood and visiting Beth at college. There were two train stations in the area. One in Schenectady, and one in Albany. That would be key to her plan.

“I’ll meet you in Schenectady. Be sure you get off there.”

“Maybe it’s a good idea to put our heads together. We’re out of leads,” he said, dejection in his voice.

“You didn’t find Bronson?”

“We did.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“Bronson is dead.”

She filled with fear, unable to shake Hasenfus’ words: Billy Harper is eliminating all threats. “I want to speak to Carolyn,” she demanded.

“We better hang up—you don’t know who is listening.”

“Put her on the phone!”

He finally relented, and Carolyn’s voice bolted into her ear with Red Bullish energy. She went on a tangent about Les Princesses, le shopping, and some nice woman named Angelique who gave her a bath.

Dana felt momentary relief.

Billy’s behavior was peculiar for someone on the run. Why give anyone a chance to trace their whereabouts? But then it hit her—this might be a trap to eliminate her. Did Billy do the same to Chuck and Beth? Is that why they were missing? By getting rid of them, Carolyn would be all his. She didn’t know, or care, at this point. She just knew she had to get Carolyn away from Billy.

She bolted into Chuck’s office, heading directly for his collection of hunting rifles. She didn’t even need to break the glass partition. A loaded handgun already rested on a table beside the case. Dana realized she wasn’t the only one who was being paranoid. She dropped the gun into her handbag, along with Beth’s BlackBerry.

Moments later, Dana’s BMW was speeding toward Schenectady.

Chapter 54

Carolyn started off Thursday morning with a rejuvenated energy, helped by the bath and good night’s sleep. The death of Bronson didn’t seem to faze her. Billy had always marveled how she could grasp concepts far beyond her age, but she still hadn’t gotten her arms around what death meant. Maybe she did think of it as a field trip to Sesame Street. It was probably a good thing.

They grabbed breakfast at a local diner, Carolyn talking a mile-a-minute. Being constantly on the edge of paranoia, combined with lack of sleep, had begun to sap Billy’s energy, and made Carolyn’s rapid dialogue sound like the humming of a lawnmower.

Billy scanned every person with intense scrutiny, including their bon-jouring waitress who made the mistake of asking if he’d like another glass of orange juice. The bad guys might’ve been looking for them, but he was also looking for the bad guys.

After breakfast, he took Carolyn to see the Bell Center, the home arena of the Montreal Canadiens hockey team. Carolyn remained disappointed that she didn’t get to the game, but like the fickle four-year-old that she was, getting to hang out with a stripper/prostitute/drug dealer named Angelique trumped the hockey game.

Around lunchtime, he decided to head for the train station, Gare Centrale. There was no reason to stay in Montreal. Their purpose was to find Bronson Rose so he could lead them to the man with all the answers—his brother André. But now the link to answers was broken, shattered, really.

They were sucking down some greasy poutines in the train station when he got the call from Dana. They were only supposed to use the cell phone in an extreme emergency, so Dana’s call raised an eyebrow. Calvin mentioned that Operation Anesthesia could bug anything and anywhere, so he was wary.

He’d also never heard Dana’s voice like that. It had a certain coldness to it. His first thought was that she’d been forced to make the call under duress. His suspicions rocketed when she demanded to know if Carolyn was with him and needed to speak to her to confirm it. But he trusted that Dana would give up her own life before putting Carolyn in harm’s way. So he agreed to meet her in Schenectady.

Following their quickie lunch, Carolyn’s mood began to grump-up. Billy wasn’t thrilled about adding Dana to his traveling caravan, making them a bigger and more colorful target, but he did see the added advantage of the female touch on Carolyn’s frazzled emotions, just as it had with Angelique last night.

He purchased two tickets to Penn Station in Manhattan, the last stop on the route. Just because they planned to get off at the approximate halfway point—Schenectady—didn’t mean he had to make it any easier for the dragons.

“What’s with you and trains—haven’t you ever heard of a car?” Carolyn complained as they took their seats. The novelty had worn off.

“It’s not all bad. There’s no car seats on a train.”

She shrugged. “Never thought about that.”

At Rouses Point, New York, just over the United States border, was the checkpoint for IDs and passports. They again used their fake IDs with the names Chad and Abigail Foley. But this time was different. Not only was US border security much stricter than Canada’s, but the fire was sure to have been ruled as bogus by now. So chances were that somebody would be looking for a man and child meeting the description of Billy Harper and Carolyn Whitcomb.

Billy’s heart momentarily stopped when they checked him. It seemed like the border guard stared at his ID for hours. As instructed, Carolyn didn’t say a word. Even when the border guard smiled at her and said, “Did you like the train ride, Abigail?” She stood like a statue, lips pressed together. Billy explained away her behavior by mentioning that Abigail had just awoken from a nap. The guard made an “I could use a nap myself” comment and passed them through.

At 6:07 p.m. the train pulled in right on time to a stop at Schenectady Amtrak Station. The tracks sat beside a rocky cliff. The sky was turning black, blocking out the colorful beauty of the fall foliage. It was the site where the Mohawks defeated the Mohicans at Kinquariones. Billy wondered if a similar battle would take place here tonight. Part of him wished he’d risked trying to bring Bronson’s gun with him on the train.

After making sure Carolyn put her jacket on, he gripped her hand and they stepped off the train into a dimly lit, half-empty parking lot that was surrounded by pine trees. He probably squeezed too tight, but it wasn’t like she could feel it. He hoped his all-black Montreal outfit would camouflage him into the background.

He saw the men right away. They were trying to disguise themselves as traveling businessmen, wearing dark suits and carrying briefcases. They looked innocent, but Billy felt the danger. He tried to act nonchalant, but he could feel a lump in his throat when they took a measured step toward him.

His panicking eyes roamed the parking lot until they landed on Dana. She stood by her BMW at the edge of the parking area, her ringlets of dark hair blowing in the stiff breeze. Could she have brought the men? Logic said, of course, dumbass, this is a setup! But his gut told him she didn’t.

His eyes then returned to the men in suits. He recognized one of them. Carolyn did also. She was like a volcano on the verge of eruption. Billy put his hand over her mouth before she yelled it.

Osama Banana.

It was the obnoxious guy who worked at Jordan’s plantation, Jones, or something like that. The one who joked about putting out his cigarette on Carolyn.

When Billy was convinced she understood the urgency of remaining quiet, he removed the hand. She was scared. “Dragons,” she whispered, her voice trembling.

“Grab my hand,” he firmly instructed. Then led her across the parking lot toward Dana, trying to act casual.

The gang glided closer. There were four of them.

Billy picked up the pace, practically dragging Carolyn like a doll.

“Mr. Harper—FBI—we have a few questions for you,” a voice sprung out from the night.

Billy kept walking, subtly increasing his speed. Carolyn held on for dear life, their hands glued together by fear. Billy got a look at the spokesman. He was the sun-blistered man from Jordan’s plantation, but he couldn’t remember his name either, he supposedly had something to do with security. Billy didn’t have time to figure out any connection between tonight and their visit to the plantation, but was convinced they weren’t FBI.

“Dragons!” Carolyn said again. But then she saw Dana, filling her voice with hope, “Billy, look, it’s Aunt Dana!”

He didn’t look. He was too focused on the pack of wolves headed in their direction. A pack of no-good.

“Mr. Harper, I’m Special Agent Hasenfus, we have a few questions about the fire in Lake George. The Whitcombs are worried about your safety, we just want to make sure you are okay.”

Bullshit, the Whitcombs were missing. At least that’s what Dana had told him.

The other suits expanded their net across the parking lot. The odds were stacked against him, but Billy saw one advantage in his favor, albeit a slight one. He could tell the men weren’t aware of Dana’s presence, confirming to Billy that she didn’t bring them. And if they didn’t know she was there, it was unlikely they followed her. Or had bugged her phone. But how did they know they were getting off at Schenectady? Were they on the train? Billy didn’t notice them if they were.

Like precision, the net continued to drag across the parking lot. Billy was out of options. Their only chance was to split up. He stopped in his tracks, which seemed to surprise their pursuers. He knelt down to Carolyn and looked deep into her hazel eyes. To say they didn’t have much time would be an understatement, but this was important. He needed to make sure she was completely clear.

The men stepped closer, illuminated in the dull streetlights. He could hear the rhythmic tapping of their dress shoes on the pavement. Billy kept his attention on Carolyn, inexplicitly taking his time. What always made him stand out on the gridiron, and had college coaches practically stalking him, was not just his arm or physical attributes, a lot of guys had those. It was his ability to slow the world down in pressure situations. Cool as a cucumber. To make pinpoint choices with logic, while others flailed with panic. Coach Blake shot into his mind. For someone who often repulsed Billy, the gruff bastard always seemed to come out of the woodwork at the most important of times. “It’s do or die, Harper, and dying don’t sound like all that much fun!” he would tell him with the game on the line. Nothing in high school sports was do or die, but this was.

The men got closer.

He didn’t move, continuing to stare deep in her wide ovals. “I need you to listen to me, Carolyn.”

Closer.

Her body trembled, but his voice was calm. “Did you understand what I just said?”

She nodded, but tears streamed down her face, crisscrossing each other. His heart broke like a spider web of broken glass.

Closer.

Billy shot the men a momentary glance. Guns were drawn. He made eye contact with Dana and subtly put a finger to his lips to signal her to remain quiet. “Carolyn, I need you to run as fast as you can to Aunt Dana. Don’t look back, run as fast as you can!”

She looked unsure.

“You’re a really fast runner, right? Show me how fast you are!”

She stood frozen like a statue.

“Run!”

Statue.

The man calling himself Hasenfus was within fifteen feet. Osama Banana backed him up about twenty feet away, armed like he was guarding a wall at Guantanamo. And she picks now, this time, not to listen?

“Run, Carolyn, run to Aunt Dana!”

“What about you?”

He snuck another peek. Ten feet and counting. “I’m just going to talk to the nice men. I won’t be long, just please run to Aunt Dana.” He forced a smile, it took two tries. “I’ll bet she has a big surprise for you!”

“They aren’t nice—they’re dragons!”

Five feet.

Nice wasn’t working, so Billy got firm, “You go right now, young lady, if you know what’s good for you!”

“No.”

“I can’t believe you’re arguing with me.”

He could feel Hasenfus’ huffing and puffing on the back of his neck.

“Stick together, remember?”

“Carolyn!”

“Stick together!”

It’s do or die, Harper.

Chapter 55

In one desperate motion, Billy slung Carolyn over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and ran as fast as he could. He didn’t look back—only no-good lurked in the rear-view mirror.

The sudden movement seemed to catch the speed-limping Hasenfus off guard. He tried to alter his course on the fly, but his wobbly legs failed him. He hit a patch of sand and crashed to the pavement, ripping his suit pants at the knee.

“Freeze—FBI!” he yelled. It was all he could do.

Billy eyed the end zone—Dana—now behind the wheel and revving the engine. The winning touchdown was in sight. Strike up the band; the Amish Rifle saves the day again!

But out of the corner of his eye, Billy saw Osama Banana pointing his gun in their direction. His graying hair was tied back in a ponytail, and his beard hung heavily from his chin. He looked uncomfortable in the suit, but then again, Billy had never seen someone with a ponytail look comfortable in a suit. But one thing he looked very comfortable doing was holding a gun.

In NFL Films-type slow motion, Billy saw him raise his gun and fire.

The force of the shot toppled Billy to the asphalt, painfully skinning the flesh off his knee. His left hand hit the pavement, jamming back his wrist, and staining it with gravel-filled scrapes. His right arm held tightly onto Carolyn, who landed on top of him. She then tumbled to a stop a few feet away. It would’ve been painful for most kids.

But it would take more than a gunshot wound to keep Billy from rescuing Carolyn. He had to get to her. He rose from blacktop and ran to her. Her face was full of its usual painless adventure. But that’s when he saw it. He first checked himself, hoping the blood staining through her sweater was from his wound. He kept desperately checking, before being hit with the cold realization that he hadn’t. What knocked him over was the force of Carolyn being shot. Her sweater was now soaked with blood. His heart sank.

He looked up at Banana, who was ruthlessly preparing to fire again. This time Billy picked up Carolyn like he was carrying his bride across the threshold—cupping her with both hands and pulling her to his chest. The patch of red on her sweater continued to grow like a cancer. He ran, knowing that the next shot would have to go directly through his back to get to her.

“If I fall you keep running,” he insisted, expecting a bullet to sever his spine any second.

Carolyn said nothing. She was mesmerized by the blood soaking through her sweater, touching it with amused curiosity. But still no signs of pain.

Billy ran and braced at the same time, feeling the gun locked on the back of his head.

That’s when he heard Hasenfus yell, “Hold your fire! Hold your fire! Jones—what the hell are you doing?”

Billy wondered what caused such an odd change of heart. But he didn’t have time to ponder it. He barreled into the backseat of the BMW, he and Carolyn crashing onto the leather seats, as they tore out of the parking lot.

Chapter 56

Dana sped out of the train station like she knew where she was going, and then turned onto an eerily quiet Union Avenue. When it appeared they were out of immediate danger, she twisted her head toward the backseat and shrieked, “Is she okay?”

Billy had no good answer. He tore off Carolyn’s sweater and used it as a towel to sop up the red liquid until he found flesh. But the second he removed the towel, she was covered in blood again. It felt hopeless, like the fable about the child trying to put fingers in the dam to stop the flood. The blood kept coming. He needed to find the wound on her little body, but she couldn’t point him toward the pain. He kept up the process. Wipe—red—wipe—red. Panic set in.

But then he found the cool quarterback, and the world slowed down. After a few more desperate wipes, he located the wound in her right armpit. By the looks of things, the bullet exited out the back of her shoulder. No major organs in the armpit, he thought. He hoped. Although every gunshot is just an inch away from a “good night” organ. Everything was so close, especially on such a little girl. He thought of the spine, and made her move all her extremities. So far so good.

But the bleeding continued. He wrapped her sweater under the armpit and then around her shoulder, tourniquet style. He then took her hockey jersey out of her backpack and put it on her. He wanted her to be as warm as possible, to avoid her going into shock.

“How you doing, kiddo?” he asked.

“I’m a little tired.”

“You lost a lot of blood, like the Dracula joke. It makes you tired.”

“Does that mean I can’t go to school anymore?”

“No, you are going back to school real soon.”

“I’m gonna haff some good stories to tell.”

He hoped.

She tried to sit up. “Whoa…dizzy.”

“Just put your head down for a few minutes and you’ll be fine.”

He hoped.

“We have to get her to a hospital,” Dana exclaimed, continuing to speed into the dark night.

“We can’t take her to a hospital. Those people can get to her anywhere.”

Dana was momentarily silent, and Billy didn’t like the vibe he got. He examined her closely. She looked like Dana: sweater, boots, and flowing hair, right off the cover of some women’s magazine hyping “hot new fall fashions!” She certainly smelled like Dana—expensive and European. But there was something different about her. It was her stillness. From the first time he laid eyes on her she was in constant motion. He didn’t know what to make of it.

“Maybe we can take her to one of those doctors who work for the mafia or drug dealers, who do it under the table,” she said.

“Sure, let’s go find a Yellow Pages and look up Drug Dealer Doctors.”

She scowled at his sarcasm and coldness filled the car. “I was just thinking out loud. Flesh wound or not, she’s lost a lot of blood, and could go into shock. Not to mention infection or internal damage.”

“Watching Grey’s Anatomy doesn’t make you a doctor.”

“We have to get her to a hospital!”

“It’s against my better judgment.”

“Better judgment than what? You almost got her killed back there!”

She sounded more like Beth than Dana.

“Can I go to a children’s hospital and not a regular hospital?” Carolyn chimed in, but her tone was weakening.

But then she seemed to find a second wind. With unexpected vigor, she struggled to reach her healthy arm around to her back. She eventually maneuvered her hand under the hockey jersey. Billy wasn’t sure what she was doing, but something was bothering her. Strange, since she was normally immune to most stimuli.

“Are you okay?” Billy asked.

“I can’t reach.”

Then he asked a stupid question. “Does it hurt? Your back?”

“No, silly, it itches.”

“You can feel itches?” he asked, surprised.

“Weren’t you listening to Dr. Jordan?”

“I guess not.”

“I can feel tickles too, just not my boo-boos.”

He gave her a light tickle on her belly, hoping to cut the tension. She smiled slightly. She seemed to be stabilizing.

Billy helped her lift the baggy jersey over her head. He examined the “sweater bandage” wrapped around her shoulder and underarm area. It was splotched with blood, but not drenched. The bleeding had subsided.

Billy then turned her around and found the spot she couldn’t reach. He noticed a dark object just under the surface of her skin.

“What is it?” Dana asked impatiently from the front seat.

He examined closer. “I don’t know. It looks like it might be a big tick.”

Carolyn freaked. “We better get it out before I get the lime!”

“Hold still,” he steadied her, while Dana handed him a nail file from her handbag. He began to dig into the flesh of her back. “This might hur…uh…forget it.”

After a minute or so, he was able to dig the object out of her back. It wasn’t a tick. It was a roundish metallic object about the size of a penny. It had a logo on it; two letter Ss protruding vertically like two snakes. He remembered it from the ID badges at the hospital.

“What is it?” Dana asked again.

Billy wasn’t sure, but he had an idea. He was a writer, not one of those private detectives who always can find bugs under a phone or in the walls. But for some odd reason he was sure it was a tracking device.

“Do you know what this is?” he asked Carolyn, holding it in front of her face.

She looked at it. “No.”

“Do you know where you got it?”

“Yes.”

The answer surprised him. As did the next one.

“Dr. Jordan put it in my back.”

“Dr. Jordan? Did he say why he put it in your back?”

She shook her head no, before succumbing again to dizziness.

Billy’s mind exploded, the puzzle pieces falling into place. Operation Anesthesia had used the device to track them to the train station in Schenectady. They didn’t follow Dana, nor were they on his train. It was also why they let them go. Why make a big scene when they can just pick them up at the next stop?

And it all went back to Jordan. Both men—the security guy posing as a FBI agent and Osama Banana—worked for him. And he’s the one who put the tracking device in her back. Carolyn was right, dragons were at the plantation. Billy now understood that the key to stopping Operation Anesthesia, and getting Chuck and Beth back, was no longer André Rose. It was Dr. Samuel Jordan.

Billy laid out his theory to Dana, but she remained cold and unimpressed. “And you are some kind of James Bond?” she said, then abruptly pulled over to the side of the road and shut off the engine, “Get out of the car—I need to talk to you.”

They stepped out. Dana brought her large handbag with her, which confused him.

“What’s your problem?” Billy began, annoyed.

“My problem?”

“We just might have gotten the break we need and all you’re giving me is attitude.”

“Chuck and Beth are missing.”

“You told me. Do you know what happened?”

“You tell me.”

Something was wrong. This wasn’t Dana before him.

“How would I know what happened? We were running for our life, if you remember. In Montreal!”

“The guy who was chasing you came by my office yesterday. Said his name was Hasenfus. There is no record of a Hasenfus working at the FBI.”

“That’s because he was full of shit. I saw him and the Osama Bin Laden-looking guy at Jordan’s plantation in Virginia. Jordan has something to do with this. Why else would he be putting devices in her back? I think they’re all in on it—they all work for Operation Anesthesia!”

“He said you were the one who worked for Operation Anesthesia.”

Billy’s face twisted in convulsions. He wasn’t expecting that one.

“He tried to convince me you were working with Calvin Rose. Told me about your violent past and showed me those photos of Kelly after you used her face as a punching bag. It’s one thing to hear someone talking about it on the radio, it’s another to see it firsthand. He said you were going to deliver Carolyn to Operation Anesthesia.”

“And you believe that bullshit?”

Dana pulled a gun from her handbag and pointed it at him. “No, I don’t think you planned to give Carolyn to Operation Anesthesia, or anyone else. You want Carolyn for yourself.”

Surprise filled his face, the pop out of the cake naked kind. “What are you talking about? I’m trying to save Carolyn!”

“Or save yourself. I know the whole ugly truth from that night in D.C. I know why you did what you did. I know both reasons.”

He stood stunned. The past had risen from the dead like a character in a horror flick.

Dana began to cry. “Part of me understands your pain. I can’t even imagine what you went through. But you can’t use Carolyn to fill the hole in your heart.”

He attempted to step toward her. “That’s crazy, Dana.”

The gun trembled in her hand. But her steely eyes left no doubt she would use it if need be. “Give me your train tickets and my ATM card.”

He patted his black jeans and shrugged. “I put them in Carolyn’s backpack in the car.”

Not believing him, she patted him down like she was NYPD, finding only empty pockets. She then wiped tears from her eyes. “I guess this is goodbye, Billy.”

He tried to say something, but his mouth felt paralyzed.

She ran to the car and sped away.

Carolyn looked out the back window and gave an unsure wave.

He stood stunned. But then a thought hit him over the head like a sledgehammer.

“No, Dana, come back!” he yelled, but the car was too far gone.

He just remembered that he had put the tracking device in Carolyn’s backpack.

Chapter 57

Billy found a taxi at a gas station about a half a mile up the street. Luckily, Dana didn’t check his sock, where he’d hidden what was left of the money he took out of the ATM at Les Princesses. He was able to bribe the off-duty driver into giving him a lift.

But to where?

Then it hit him. Dana asked for his train tickets. Was she was going to jump it at the next station? The thinking being, the bad guys (him included) would be looking for a BMW. But because of the tracking device, they weren’t. He had to get to her.

“What’s the nearest Amtrak stop?” he asked the driver.

“Albany/Rensselaer.”

“How far is it?”

“Twenty miles or so.”

“Go there. And step on it!”

The man looked for a bug to squash.

“No, go really fast.”

The driver drove onto I-890, before merging onto the New York State Thruway. They hit tolls, frustrating Billy.

The driver was affable and talkative. He introduced himself as Martin—pronounced Mar-tan—and explained away his accent as him being a French Canadian from Quebec who had recently moved to the Albany area. He appeared to be going for the Planet of the Apes look. Unruly dark hair with a heavy beard. The hair on the back of his neck was almost as thick as the hair on Billy’s head.

They crossed the Hudson River using the Henrick Street Bridge, arriving in the town of Rensselaer. The facility was a modern, multi-level station of eighty thousand square feet that rested just over the bridge. The polar opposite of the small, dated station in Schenectady.

He had Martin drop him at the front entrance of the large, brick building and offered the rest of his money to stay and wait. Billy dashed toward the glass entrance, but before he reached the station, something caught his eye. It was Dana’s BMW parked up on the curb about twenty feet from them. Abandoned. Police were looking at it, but were they real police? The car evoked mixed emotions. At least he now knew her whereabouts. But was he too late?

He sprinted into a spacious open area, travelers scampering past him in all directions. The station was filled with shops, cafés, and even a post office. It was more like an upscale mall than a typical train station. Billy hurried to an information booth. It was surrounded by photos of the ribbon cutting grand opening, filled with grandstanding New York politicians mugging for the photos. The woman behind the glass partition sent him to a set of modern display monitors that provided up-to-the-minute updates on arrivals and departures.

Billy was overwhelmed by the number of train lines. Martin had warned him that Albany/Rensselaer was the hub for the region, a rare area where you could actually travel by train in all four directions. A quarter of a million travelers came through the station each year, making it easy to get lost. A good choice by Dana, regardless whether it was by design or shear luck.

He found the Adirondack line for Amtrak. Delayed, it read, due to mechanical issues. By mechanical, he was hoping they didn’t mean suspicious shooting. The screen then changed right before his eyes. Arrived. His heart plummeted. He abruptly turned and headed for the train platform.

Two escalators were running to the upper platform, separated by steep stairs in the middle. He ran up the stairs. His lungs burned and his legs molded into jelly. He remembered running the metal bleachers at his high school with Coach yelling, “Come on, Harper—no pain, no gain!”

But when he reached visual distance of the train platform, his plummeting heart crashed completely to the ground. He saw the blistered Hasenfus, along with Osama Banana and a couple other henchmen getting on the train. They strategically got into different train cars, spreading out like a noose they were going to tie around Carolyn and Dana’s necks. Billy ran faster.

But just as he arrived at the platform, the train pulled away, vanishing from sight.

Security intercepted him. Not a rent-a-cop—security was much more serious at train stations post London bombings. These guys were military. In Billy’s twisting mind of paranoia, he wondered if they were connected to the big plot.

“Stop that train!” he yelled like a mad man.

“Do you have a ticket, sir?” asked one of the fatigue-wearing soldiers.

“Umm…no…please stop the train,” he pleaded.

“Sorry, sir, you are too late. Please consult the ticket office about the next train.”

He walked lifelessly to the platform and fell to his knees. Then something strange occurred—a tear plopped to his cheek. He wasn’t sure what it was at first—it had been so long since he last cried. The ice must thaw before turning to liquid form. “Oh my God—no!” he cried out.

That was when he felt a tap on the shoulder. He instinctively looked.

The toothless grin of Carolyn Whitcomb was staring back at him. “Don’t cry, Billy, the sun will come out tomorrow.”

Confused, he swiveled his neck and saw Dana.

“I found the chip in her backpack when I was looking for the train tickets. I thought about what you said, and then I saw those…”

“Dragons,” Carolyn completed the sentence.

“So I got on the train and dropped the chip in the bathroom to create a diversion. They’re probably staking it out as we speak.” Her face grew serious. “The next stop is Hudson, which is a haul, but we better get out of here.”

Billy didn’t know how to react. He looked at the still-smiling Carolyn, who began physically wiping the tears off his face. He smiled back at her and said, “What is with you and trains. Haven’t you ever heard of a car?”

She giggled softly. “No car seats on a train.”

“I didn’t think about that.”

More giggling.

He then turned parental. “How’s your shoulder?”

It was still wrapped heavily, bulging the fabric of her hockey jersey. Wearing a jersey with her name on it was the equivalent of hanging a sign around her neck that screamed Missing Kid!, but it was still a better option than her bloodstained sweater and coat.

“It hurts really bad,” she said, the sly grin slipping from her mouth before she even got the next words out. “Only kidding, Billy!”

He was grinning like a fool. “You really had me going there.”
Carolyn’s face then turned stony, and she scolded, “I thought you said we’d stick together. Remember?”

Billy nodded. “You’re right. Is there any way I can make it up to you?”

Satisfied, her smile returned. “Ice cream would be a good start.”

Billy’s gaze roamed to Dana, locking eye contact. The icy aura had melted away. She appeared to be the Dana he had come to know, only less motion. “What made you change your mind about me?”

“I didn’t change my mind about you, Billy. I just remembered my mother telling me that I should always keep hope alive.”

Chapter 58

They left the train platform and headed for the parking lot. Billy couldn’t ever remember noticing a security camera in his entire life, but now he noticed each and every one and took special note of what angle they were being shot from.

As was par for the course, Carolyn continued to be unfazed by the chaotic whirlwind she was the center of. She went on and on to Dana about her trip to Montreal. She put special emphasis on her new friend, Angelique. Thanks to Billy, she did pick up a certain habit during her excursion north of the border. She now prefaced all verbs with le—le walking, le eating, le sleeping. Like most habits of a four-year-old, it started off adorable, and then was downgraded to cute, before spiraling to teeth-gnashing annoying.

Martin dropped them off at the airport. They bought tickets with Dana’s credit card, but never boarded the plane. They wanted all interested parties to believe they left town. They then risked the security cameras of a CVS they found near the airport, and purchased bandages, gauze, and antiseptic for Carolyn’s wound, along with a map of the area, which helped guide them to the shelter of a nearby fleabag motel within walking distance. Every few minutes the room shook when another plane took off, causing them to leap out of their skin.

Dana took Carolyn into the bathroom and put the clean bandages on her gunshot wound. She remained concerned about infection, still convinced they should get her to a hospital. But Billy knew that would be more lethal than her wound. She also had one of her fevers, and they were unsure if they needed to treat it differently because of her loss of blood. This was uncharted terrain.

Carolyn didn’t seem as concerned. She declared that she was hungry and wanted “Chinee” food. Her wish was granted forty minutes later when their food arrived from a local takeout joint they found in the Yellow Pages. The unknowing delivery boy was met with an interrogation worthy of Guantanamo, before they finally accepted the food. Carolyn ate gracefully with her chopsticks, once again morphing into an adult before their eyes, and then just as quickly turning back into a helpless four-year-old.

After their stomachs were filled with the greasy food, Dana tucked Carolyn in for the night. Billy noticed how she was clinging to Dana. He was right—she needed the female companionship.

Billy sat at a small desk beside the bed, lit only by dull light from a desk lamp. Dana returned and immediately broke their awkward silence, “Listen, there was just so much coming at me at one time, and when I learned about what happened in D.C. and your motivation behind it, it made the ending of your manuscript seem such a real possibility. My head ran with the idea. I freaked.”

“You mean my fictional manuscript?”

Dana shrugged guilty shoulders.

“You were just worried about Carolyn. That’s all any of us are doing,” Billy said.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Dana offered.

“What’s done is done.”

“I mean about what happened in D.C. I understand why you did what you did, and I might have done the same thing if I were in your situation. I know the whole truth, so what’s the harm in talking about it?”

He just shook his head no.

She nodded as if she understood. “Well, if you ever do, I’m here.”

“Do you want to talk about what that keep hope alive stuff means?”

“No.”

He smiled ruefully. “Then I guess all we have to talk about is this fine mess we find ourselves in.”

In the short time he’d known her, Billy had never seen Dana looking so vulnerable. He put his arm around her. They had developed intimacy force fields over the years, so the moment felt unnatural.

“We have to be strong for Carolyn,” he said.

“And Beth and Chuck,” she added, her eyes filling with despair.

“We’re going to find them, I promise.”

“And how do you plan to do that?” she asked with a skeptical look.

“We have the element of surprise on our side. They don’t know that we know about Jordan, just like they didn’t know about Calvin at the cabin. They have been the aggressors this whole time, using fear to keep us on our heels. But now, we are going to be the aggressors, and make a surprise visit to Dr. Jordan’s office. I have a feeling when we threaten to expose him, he will be willing to hand Chuck and Beth over.”

He hoped.

“We can’t give Carolyn up under any circumstances,” she replied, her face still full of doubt.

He nodded. It was understood. Nor could they go to the police. “We’re up against some heavy duty artillery here. It seems like they can get to us anywhere and anytime. According to Calvin, they were behind the situation in Iran. For all we know, the government might be involved. Who knows how far and wide this thing reaches.”

“Albany is the last place they expect us right now. Scared people run, so we bought some time, but not much,” Dana said, sounding more like Jack Bauer than Dana Boulanger. “So we need to get out of here first thing in the morning.”

Billy took a long look at her. Without her facade of motion, he was able to get a clear look at her for the first time. He always knew she was attractive, but never noticed how really beautiful she was. Something twanged inside him. He knew he was a long way from ever being able to give his heart away, but for the first time in a long time he felt a twinge of hope that one day he could. Keep hope alive.

“Tell me everything leading up to Chuck and Beth disappearing,” he said.

Dana again recounted the Hasenfus visit to her office, including the pictures of Kelly. She paused, as if giving him the opportunity to defend the photos, but he refused to deny hitting Kelly, or talk about it at all. Dana then detailed her trip to the barn, finding Beth’s BlackBerry and a package from Evelyn, but no Chuck or Beth.

Billy took the Evelyn package into his hands. “Why didn’t you open it?”

It was intended for Beth. Why would I open it?”

“What if Evelyn saw something, but she was afraid? Maybe she left a clue for you camouflaged as a package.”

Dana rolled her tired eyes. “Knock yourself out. But if it’s a cow sweater, you’re the one who’s going to be wearing it.”

He tore the package open, the ripping sound being drowned out by a loud plane taking off overhead. Contents spilled out on the table. A handwritten letter lay on top.

Dana grabbed the letter and said, “That’s my mom’s writing.”

She began to read.

Chapter 59

My beloved Beth (you know I prefer to call you Elizabeth, but I know you hate that),

As I write this you are six years old. First grade—wow—and how smart you are. I know we will not be able to keep the truth from you forever. And that’s what worries me, Beth. The truth could be very harmful to you, and I never want to see that big gap-toothed smile wiped off your face. Or your fearlessness, or wonderment, or even your unbreakable will (stubbornness I admit, but you see, I am very biased when it comes to you.)

You have been with us for two years now and it has become quite obvious that your mother, father, and brother will not be able to return to your life. I pray every day that they will, not that I don’t selfishly want to hold you close to me forever, quite the opposite, but there are days when a girl really needs her mother. They were so proud of you—you have to trust me on that one. It’s important that you know this.

So let me get to what happened. I’m stalling, I know! If you are reading this, Beth, then I am no longer in this world. My hope is that I am around long enough to tell you in person when you are old enough. You see, I was diagnosed with a little heart thing today. It was nothing really, but it made me think to write you this letter in case I’m not around. It is important that you are prepared for the danger that lurks out there, endangering your sweetness.

You were not abandoned, Beth, as you’ve been led to believe. Your mother gave you to me because you were in danger, and she would do anything to protect you. I am not even completely sure why, but people are after your family. Your mother was a student of mine at Siena who I grew close to, always my downfall as a professor, and then post-grad she became my assistant. We worked together up until I left Siena and moved to Greenwich. And I take it as a great honor that she would entrust me with the most precious thing in her life. I will include some of the correspondence between your mother and me, so that you know for sure, and have proof of how much she loved you. The only person who knows, besides your parents and myself, is your new grandmother, Beverly. Not Tom, not Dana or your new brothers, not anyone.

On Christmas Day almost two years ago, your mother had come to New York to meet with a doctor about your brother’s condition. Many strange events were occurring and she had become suspicious that people were after them. So she asked me if I would take care of you if anything “happened.” I saw the fear in her eyes, and I had known Carol Ann to be honest to a fault, so I didn’t hesitate. I wanted to keep it as quiet as possible, but I had to exchange some of the publicity of the “Abandoned Child” in order to make your story believable. I held my breath that the local media coverage wouldn’t spread the story beyond our little place of the earth and blow your cover. Your parents were the most honorable people I know. Giving you up was a sacrifice of great unselfishness, not the other way around. They would never abandon you.

As I write this letter, I am watching you run around our living room. Your smile is lighting up the room, as it always does. I promised you that we would go to the park as soon as I am done with this letter. You are growing quite impatient. Your sister Dana just arrived home from high school cheerleading practice and you should see the big hug she gave you. You are so lucky to have each other. As we are so lucky to have been blessed with you—our angel! You have come into my life at a time when I have been forced to give up my love—teaching—and I’m questioning my choice in marriage. I hope you are old enough to understand such concepts when you read this, and that you and Dana find someone who will love you for who you are, unconditionally. I had become numb, wandering through life not wanting to wake up the fates. But when you came into my life, my heart burned again, and suddenly felt the bittersweet combination of love and pain that makes up this crazy thing called life. On that note, I will now end this letter and take you and Dana to the park. My girls, may you stay safe forever!

Love always,

Mrs. B

Dana exploded into tears. Billy tried to comfort her, but it was obvious she needed to alone with her mangled emotions, so he let her be. Beth was sent to meet Mrs. B, just as Joe Skaggs had told him on the train, but it had nothing to do with selling her on the black market. Billy studied the other materials that accompanied the letter, picking up a family photo that doubled as a Christmas card. Seasons Greetings from The Penningtons, it read. Steve, Carol Ann, Nathan and Beth. Her real name was Beth Pennington.

It was impossible not to see the resemblances. Carol Ann, Beth’s mother, was a carbon copy of the grown-up Beth. The short strawberry blonde hair, freckled nose, and stern look. The father, Steve Pennington, was a sturdy man who stood beside his family like the protector. The young Beth in the photo was an eerie clone of Carolyn, her fairer hair the only difference. As he viewed the photo, Billy thought his mind was doing tricks on him.

His eyes then focused on a young boy, probably eight or nine years old. Half his face was severely burned, while the other half was unscathed. He remembered Beth telling him that the other children cruelly called him E.T., after the popular movie of the time about an alien. Billy knew what was wrong with the boy. And he wasn’t an alien.

Billy sifted through the numerous photos and correspondences. He was intrigued by the level of paranoia in Carol Ann’s writings. Government conspiracies, something was wrong, didn’t trust the doctors, etc. In one letter she mentioned a Dr. Dash Naqui, who she planned to meet on that infamous Christmas Day. Mrs. B had hidden the correspondences all these years, so presumably nobody was aware of Naqui to check him out. Billy wrote down the name in his reporter notebook.

Billy was sure it was all connected. He was convinced that Beth’s brother, Nathan, had CIPA. Beth didn’t have it, but was a carrier. Operation Anesthesia was not new. When he thought about it, Calvin was maybe sixteen, and said he was born at the Anesthesia camp. So it was very plausible that the government conspiracy Carol Ann talked of in her letters, was to kidnap Nathan, just like they were now trying to capture Carolyn.

But it didn’t answer all his questions. What happened to the rest of the Penningtons? Was Nathan captured, or was he hidden at a safe-house like Beth? What happened to her parents—Carol Ann and Steve Pennington? As far as he knew, Debi Edelstein was the last person to see them, when she witnessed them put their four-year-old daughter on a train and send her like a Christmas gift to Mrs. B. The real Polar Express.

As Billy shoved the contents back into the envelope, he noticed Carol Ann Pennington’s return address written on the upper corner of one of the envelopes she sent to Mrs. B. It was 1154 East Lyndon Street in Schenectady. The place where this story began over twenty years ago.

Billy knew that all great stories begin with a bad beginning, before the characters rise from ashes—overcome great odds—endure great tragedy. All leading to a mercurial rise toward a triumphant end. Billy realized that for this story to have a good ending, they would have to start at the bad beginning.

Chapter 60

TGIF—Thank God it’s Friday.

That’s what Billy remembered his co-workers at Klein’s Beer mindlessly humming around the cubicled office on Fridays. They didn’t thank their chosen holy savior for the gift of life or eternal salvation. They thanked God for two measly days off before they returned back on Monday.

But as Billy reviewed his week, he believed its symbolic end was worthy of praising a deity. It all began last Sunday when an intruder was spotted at the Whitcomb house, and concluded on Thursday night with Carolyn getting shot. And what happened in-between was still hard to grasp. So yes, Billy agreed. Thank God it was Friday.

Morning came, but the sun never rose. The skies were fall-bleak and looked like it could snow at any moment, even though it was only October. They ate leftover “Chinee” for breakfast, and then Billy and Dana went through the ritual of checking Carolyn’s wounds. To the best of their medical knowledge, which wasn’t much, they looked okay

Dana wanted to hightail it to North Carolina to speak with Jordan, but conceded that they needed to buy time to figure out a way to get there without being exposed. They were right next to the airport, but Billy knew that was fool’s gold. Going through airport security would be a like putting out a welcome mat for Operation Anesthesia. So to buy time, they would travel to the past.

Their only choice was to call a cab, and surprisingly, Martin showed up again. They were immediately suspicious, but then he informed them that he was the only driver for Tech Valley Cabs, because he was the owner and was yet to make enough profit to hire any drivers. Using the Calvin Rose philosophy, Billy knew that if Martin worked for Operation Anesthesia, they would already be killed or captured.

Their first stop on the trip to the bad beginning was Siena College, located in Loudonville, about twenty minutes northeast of Albany. It was also a common denominator of all involved. Mrs. B was a professor there. Beth’s mother, Carol Ann, was Mrs. B’s student, and later her teacher assistant, cementing a relationship that would provide her daughter safe harbor for the last twenty-plus years. Beth, herself, attended as a student. The irony was that she chose to attend school at Siena because of Mrs. B’s influence, but had no idea her own mother had also attended.

Martin remained in the car as they entered the campus of the small Franciscan college. By this point, it was understood he would wait for them. Dana had brought enough money with her to keep him on retainer for a few more days. They walked across the campus, which was overflowing with immense trees and colored leaves. It appeared to be a typical New England university with classic brick buildings, ivy, and quads that surrounded a large, gold-domed building called Siena Hall. The smell of autumn filled the early morning air. Early-bird students were chatting freely as they scurried to class, holding piles of textbooks under their arms.

It’s what Billy believed college should be about. Not a community living vicariously through football players who were pretending to be students. It still hit him hard when he thought of the death threats he received when he quit to work on his academics. Death threats because a college student wanted to study more!

But that didn’t mean he didn’t love college. He did. It was a time of feeling alive. He recently heard a song that celebrated the idea of living like you are dying, in other words, live each day to the fullest because it might be your last. He didn’t find that philosophy very enticing, and it actually sounded pretty depressing. But college was different. It was a time when he lived life like he was never going to die. Living in the moment, convinced he was indestructible. That’s what Billy thought of when he thought of college, and still believed it was the best way to live life.

Problem was, right now it felt like death was around every corner.

Another problem was that very few current people at Siena had any remembrance of Mrs. B or Carol Ann Pennington, so their return to college came up empty. The only real accomplishment during their campus visit was adding to Carolyn’s growing college sweatshirt collection, purchasing one with Siena’s colors of green and gold. She badly needed a change of clothing. A forest-fire-smelling, personalized hockey jersey wasn’t the best choice of apparel if they wanted to remain under the radar. Carolyn spent most of the visit negotiating to run around the campus, apparently unaffected by her gunshot wound, but they weren’t letting her out of their sight for even a second.

With the trip to the past turning out to be another crack in the rear-view mirror, they began looking toward their cloudy future. Dana was able to use her flirting skills to get them into the computer library, where they were able to log onto the Internet without fear of being traced. They researched potential transportation to North Carolina, without much success. Billy also Googled the name of the doctor Carol Ann mentioned in her letters—Dash Naqui. The findings showed Naqui to be quite accomplished, a leading expert in neurological disorders. Billy remembered what Bronson had said when Billy asked him who the trainers work for.

The doctors.

Billy knew they were getting low on time, so Dr. Naqui would have to take a number. The first doctor they needed to meet with was Dr. Jordan. Then just before he clicked off the net, something hit him.

It was something Martin mentioned on the way over, while discussing the nuisances of the different cities in the Albany area. He said it was a hard place to fit in as a newcomer like himself, because it’s one of those places that people live from birth to death. “And even when they leave, they always return,” he added.

“Could it be that simple,” Billy mumbled as he typed the names of Steve and Carol Ann Pennington into a search. Could they have returned to the area?

He found the names of three Steve Penningtons in the Albany/Schenectady area. Against Dana’s wishes, Billy thought they needed to check them out before heading out of town, no matter how much of a long-shot it was. The first Steve Pennington lived right near Siena, but was a middle-aged black man—a dead end. The second Steve Pennington lived in an apartment near the capital in Albany, but was a college-age student at University of Albany-SUNY, ruling him out.

Martin then drove them to the final possibility. It was a broken down two-story house on Rockland Drive in Schenectady. The paint was peeling and shutters were missing. As Martin waited, Billy led Dana and Carolyn up the chipped cement stoop and knocked. A middle-aged woman with an out-of-style perm answered.

Billy’s mind became one of those crime-solving computers that projects aging. “Carol Ann?” he asked.

The woman made a strange face. “I’m sorry, nobody by that name lives here.”

Just as the woman began to shut the door, Dana exclaimed, “We are looking for Steve Pennington. Does he live here?”

The door came open, and they were reluctantly invited in. But they soon found out that this Steve Pennington was a ninety-two year old man suffering from numerous ailments, and the woman was his caretaker. Another dead end.

When they exited, things went from bad to worse. Their ride was gone! Martin had left a note on the curb. It rambled vaguely about an emergency that forced him to leave immediately. Billy was suspicious—something had spooked Martin. Dana must’ve had the same thought because she was reaching for the gun. Billy prepared for an ambush similar to the one at the cabin, but none came.

Stuck without a vehicle, Billy pulled out the envelope with the last-known address of Carol Ann and Steven Pennington on East Lyndon Street in Schenectady. According to their map, it was only a couple blocks away from Rockland Drive. Billy’s instincts tugged at him to go there. He wasn’t sure why. The Penningtons hadn’t lived there in over twenty years. But it wasn’t like they had a better plan at the moment.

A fifteen-minute walk landed them into the driveway of 1154 East Lyndon Street. The neighborhood was a suburban sprawl that gave off the hopeful vibe of the American dream. It contrasted with the bleakness of the neighborhood they just left, even though only blocks separated them.

Billy wasn’t sure what he hoped to find. Maybe he was hoping to run into some ghosts who could fill in his blanks. Or perhaps he had watched too many crime dramas where they always returned to the “scene of the crime.”

Nobody appeared to be home at the modest, split-level colonial. He wondered how many others had occupied it since the Penningtons abandoned it all those years ago. He peered into the two-car garage and spotted a motorcycle. Billy had a brief daydream of smashing the garage window and taking the bike to North Carolina. Not a very likely scenario with three people, including a child. The heavily advertised security system was another obstacle.

He lifted Carolyn onto his shoulders so she could look through the garage window. An excited look swallowed up her face. “I like motorcycles!”

“We know,” Dana said with a motherly sarcasm.

At another dead end, without any transportation, and running out of time, they took a seat on the curb in front of the house. They looked like a homeless family. Okay, now what?

Options were dwindling.

That’s when a middle-aged, power-walking couple appeared in matching sweat suits and sneakers so white they must have been right out of the box. The woman had long brown hair that was secured in a ponytail, while the man’s blond combover was struggling in its battle against the wind.

The couple hesitantly approached them. The man spoke in suspicious neighborhood-watch tone. “I saw you looking into the Garcia’s house. Are they expecting you?”

Billy and Dana were too tired to even look up. So Carolyn did the honors. She excitedly exclaimed, “They got a motorcycle!”

The woman stared at Carolyn like she’d seen a ghost. The color drained from her face. When she regained some sense of composure, she uttered in a shaken voice, “Beth?”

Chapter 61

Beth awoke Friday morning to the smell of freshly cut flowers. It was her second day in captivity, although this version of captivity sure had a different twist—she never remembered reading about satin sheets in Vietnam prison camps.

She remained in her room all day during her first full day on the plantation, with nobody coming to see her. They were treating her like a grounded child, patiently waiting her out until she complied. She thought of the last time she and Chuck had to go that route with Carolyn. But Carolyn’s stubbornness eventually wore them down. She planned on doing the same with Operation Anesthesia. It must be a family trait, she thought.

A knock rattled the door. Beth walked to the remnants of the artist formally known as the china dish, which was still lying on the floor. She had thrown last night’s dinner against the wall, refusing to eat. It was part rebellion, but she also believed they might use the food to drug her again. She picked up the most-jagged piece she could find.

Beth moved to the door, ready to strike with the broken dish. She pulled the door open, surprised at what she saw. A plump, middle-aged black woman with metallic silver hair. Everybody’s grandmother with a disarming smile. Not the armed trainer she expected. She lowered her weapon.

The woman smiled at Beth—a disarming smile. “I’m Miss Rose. I heard you had moved in and I just wanted to be neighborly.”

Beth was confused. Before her was the woman who prepared their meal when they were last at Jordan Plantation. She remembered how she made Carolyn smile.

“Did you sleep well?” Miss Rose asked.

Beth said nothing, remaining stone-faced.

“You look tired, dear, I know how stressful the first couple of days in a new place can be.”

Beth wasn’t sure what to make of the woman. Was she one of them, or a victim like her?

Miss Rose seemed to read her mind, “I remember my first day when they brought me here, gosh, it must’ve been twenty years ago. I live right down the hall.”

“I don’t get it,” Beth finally spoke, “I saw you in the dining room.”

“I’m retired, but my job working as Dr. Jordan’s personal cook keeps me busy. Most of my children have grown.”

“How many children did they force you to have?” Beth asked with hostility.

“I have fifteen on the grounds,” Miss Rose remained cheerfully on message.

“What do they do with the ones who don’t have CIPA—feed them to the dogs?”

“I think you have it all wrong, dear. This is a place of benevolence. For those children who don’t meet the criteria, they find good homes in the outside. Dr. Jordan has set up an organization through his children’s hospital.”

The lucky ones, Beth thought. “You call taking your children away from you, benevolence? I call it kidnapping!”

“From what they told me, you were adopted yourself. And look how well you turned out.”

Beth realized her aggressive tactic, while natural, wasn’t going to get her to Carolyn any quicker. She remembered Mrs. B’s pet phrase about attracting more flies with honey than vinegar. Her hunger/talking/sex strike, combined with breaking all the good china, was a strategy drenched in vinegar.

Miss Rose smiled radiantly. “Why don’t we go for a walk, dear?”

No time like the present for Beth’s new strategy of compliance. She tossed on the light sweater and jeans that her captors had left out for her—just her size—and followed Miss Rose, who waddled ahead in a floral print dress.

They moved down the underground tunnels, passing numerous other “residents.” Miss Rose cheerily introduced Beth to a few of them. Beth expected the vacant looks of slaves, or hypnotic, proud-cult-member smiles, but they seemed like typical people trudging through the daily commute of life. Beth continued her new strategy, pleasantly responding with warm hellos. It was like the first day at a new school.

They arrived at an elevator, which they rode upward. It was a different one from the first night, but Beth figured they still weren’t going to a chocolate factory. Instead of the English basement of the manor house, their destination was an octagonal gazebo somewhere on the extensive plantation grounds. It was surrounded by exquisite gardens and featured a panoramic view of the lake. Miss Rose grabbed Beth’s hand and helped her down the steps of the gazebo into a beautiful sunken garden. According to Miss Rose, it was the creation of someone called Lady Amrich who married the son of Quincy Jordan at the turn of the 19th century.

After leaving the garden area, they entered a path that trailed through a thick, wooded area, eventually arriving in a meadow-like clearing. It looked to Beth like a typical park in New Canaan, where the pampered wives of the wealthy congregated in their designer workout suits. Beth witnessed parents playing with children under a perfect October sky. Young mothers pushing children in baby carriages. Some fathers were flying kites with toddler-aged children, and others kicked around a soccer ball in the open field. Older women sat on a bench and chatted, while lovers held hands.

Welcome to Creepyville, she thought.

Miss Rose kept going on and on about the perfect lifestyle at the plantation. It sure didn’t sound like the type of slavery Beth learned about in history class. The kind that took place on these very grounds. The kind where if one listened closely, they could probably still hear the screams of slaves being mercilessly beaten with a leather strap.

Beth didn’t notice any armed guards or disciplinary beatings. They had a much bigger weapon to keep the “residents” in line—the children. No parent was going to have any motivation to leave their children, and the more they had, the more roots they grew at the plantation. Beth had once read that most slaves didn’t find the violent beatings or public humiliation to be the most feared punishments on a plantation. Being sold away from their families was the cruelest.

“This is our recreational area,” Miss Rose beamed. “We like to call it our little slice of utopia.”

It was pretty obvious that Miss Rose had swallowed the whole batch of the Jordan Kool-Aid. Beth tried to bite her tongue, but unlike her daughter, she wasn’t immune from pain and could only hold it for so long, “There is no such thing! Communism was supposed to be the breeding ground for utopian society. But all that ever developed was a society that couldn’t think for itself, run by murderous dictators!”

Miss Rose remained unflappable. “I didn’t mean to imply we’re any different than any other society. We raise our families, watch our children grow, make friends, go to church…”

“Except one big difference—you’re enslaved.”

Miss Rose scoffed, “My great-great grandfather arrived to America on a slave ship and remained in slavery until he was freed by Lincoln. And then he was enslaved by a society that considered people of color to be no different than your average mule. I can assure you this is nothing like slavery.”

Beth lassoed her anger and climbed back on the honey wagon. “But don’t you miss your freedom?” she asked as pleasantly as she could muster.

“My husband and I were a mixed-race couple. We had our lives disturbed, and often threatened, by simple-minded people who didn’t accept our relationship. On top of it, Jacque was a struggling jazz musician, so we rarely had money. We had trouble making sure our son, André, got proper food and nourishment. Freedom? I’ll take this life any day of the week and twice Sunday.”

As she took in Miss Rose’s words, Beth observed some of the “residents” of Creepyville. They appeared to roam freely. But Beth was confident that armed security was hidden, ready to pounce. Most groups like this believed in the concept of certainty. Which was why they likely chose this spot—it was the perfect hideout. Five hundred acres packed away in the deep forest on the southern tip of Virginia. She remembered the Olympic bomber hiding out in the thick forests of nearby North Carolina for years before he was finally apprehended.

Miss Rose escorted Beth into a diminutive, wooden structure near the park that she referred to as the Plantation Store. It reminded Beth of a typical New England country store. Miss Rose purchased spices for that night’s masterpiece from a happy cashier. Beth was offered a freshly baked cinnamon role and an ice tea, but she politely declined, even more concerned about being drugged after what she just witnessed.

The next stop was the stone-built kitchen that Beth remembered from her original tour with Carolyn. Jordan had mentioned that it had burned down over ten times since the plantation’s inception. After Miss Rose dropped off her spices, and made a couple preparations for that night’s dinner, they returned underground to their “apartments.”

Miss Rose’s apartment was three doors down and across the hall from Beth’s room. It looked similar, but had a homier feel, different from the hotel sterility of Beth’s room. It was full of framed photographs of her many children.

Miss Rose appeared tired—she was no spring chicken, nor in top physical shape—and plopped onto her bed, wiping perspiration from her brow. Beth found Miss Rose to be an odd duck, but didn’t doubt her love for her children. She was a victim, just like she was. Just because she accepted the abuse didn’t lessen this fact.

Beth’s eyes scanned the room, before landing on a similar chart as the one over her own bed. Except it was filled in. Beth now realized it was some sort of trophy to the number of CIPA children she sired. They were in alphabetical order starting with A—as if to keep the theme of order.

André

Bronson

Calvin

Deirdre

Eddy

And so on, until it reached eighteen. The obvious one’s caught Beth’s eye. She saw an opening and took a shot, “Calvin is no longer here on the plantation, is he?”

Miss Rose was caught off guard and her voice shook, “Why do you say that?”

“Because I met Calvin. He gave me this,” she displayed the necklace with the medallion of the red rose. Now she understood that Rose was his name. “He tried to help Carolyn stay away from this utopia, as you call it. He must’ve forgotten how great this place is, or maybe he forgot to wash his brain that day.”

Miss Rose’s face changed, night-and-day different. She put her finger to her mouth to indicate quiet, and mouthed silently, “They’re listening.”

She then reached under the back of her flowered dress. Beth wasn’t sure what she was doing, she seemed like she was struggling to scratch an itch in a hard-to-reach spot. Beth was about to offer help, when Miss Rose’s arm reappeared, revealing a small chip. For some reason Beth knew right away that it was a listening device.

They made intense eye contact, mother to mother. Beth suddenly realized they had similar thoughts on freedom. Miss Rose was also doing the honey over vinegar thing, maybe for twenty years.

Beth nodded her head to indicate she understood.

“Is he okay?” Miss Rose mouthed.

“I don’t know.” Beth lied, not having the heart to tell her, her eyes shifting away. She forced a smile, but could tell Miss Rose saw right through it. She certainly didn’t have the same acting skills as Miss Rose.

“How did they escape?” Beth whispered.

Miss Rose returned the chip back into her back and smiled. The smile said everything. She helped them escape.

Intermission was over and the play resumed. Beth thanked her for a lovely day and made plans to attend church with her on Saturday night. Then Miss Rose left to cook a meal for Dr. Jordan.

Perhaps she would cook up some flies and honey.

Chapter 62

Dr. Jordan always liked to be home the first few days after a new recruit moved in. Sometimes unexpected problems occurred that needed to be nipped in the bud before they became bigger problems. Taking a child or parents from the outside world and implanting them in the culture of Operation Anesthesia was similar to transplanting an organ, a certain amount of rejection was likely to occur. But Jordan was always able to carefully massage their transition and they eventually accepted their new life.

But André, Bronson, and Calvin Rose didn’t accept it. And at first glance, the Whitcombs appeared to have as much fight as anyone who arrived at the plantation. And not just of the physical variety, but also a rare mental toughness. A trait Jordan witnessed in many childhood cancer patients who willed themselves to live years beyond any timeline doctors arrogantly put on them.

Jordan blamed Stipe for the debacle with the brothers Rose. Over time, Stipe’s arrogance had led to a sharp decline in the plantation’s security. His personal involvement dwindled and became too reliant on technology, especially the lethal fence surrounding the property. Stipe pointed to historical success as validation. But Jordan knew that past achievement never guaranteed future success, and he wasn’t going to let Stipe’s indiscretions taint his work.

After Miss Rose finished serving him another splendid meal, he retreated to his office to personally review the security video and audiotapes. His mother always ingrained in him that if you want to do something right, you must do it yourself. His target of focus was Miss Rose, whom he was sure contributed to the escape of her children. A big part of him hoped he was wrong. Someone who could cook a rack of lamb like that was not easily replaced.

Jordan focused on her interaction with his new recruit, Beth Whitcomb. It wasn’t a coincidence that he’d instructed Miss Rose to take the lead in welcoming Beth. Beth was predictably feisty in the beginning, but then suddenly turned agreeable. Jordan was suspicious of such a quick acceptance. It usually took months to break a recruit, and with Beth’s iron will he expected even longer. Another detail Stipe would’ve missed.

When they returned to Miss Rose’s apartment, he got the money-shot. Beth’s mere mention of Calvin made Rose drop her guard, and in essence, her charade. His suspicions were confirmed.

Jordan congratulated himself for being right…again. Although, he also felt saddened by Miss Rose’s betrayal. He had worked closely with her for so many years that he thought of her as family. But he had learned from experience that it is usually those closest to you who can hurt you the worst.

He would take care of this problem in the correct manner; he would take care of it himself.

Chapter 63

The woman continued to stare at Carolyn like she’d seen a ghost.

The man spoke for his frazzled wife, “I’m Ken Kiely and this is my wife Barbara. We’ve lived here for thirty-five years and your daughter looks a lot like a little girl who used to live in this house.”

“My name is Dana Boulanger, and while I’d love to take credit for her, she’s not my daughter. Carolyn is actually my niece. She is the daughter of my adopted sister, Beth. She took the name Beth Boulanger until she married, and then became Beth Whitcomb. But I learned recently that her birth name was Beth Pennington.”

“Oh my God,” Barbara stuttered in amazement, unable to take her eyes off of Carolyn. “She looks exactly like her mother did.”

“That’s what they tell me,” Carolyn added with a shrug.

“Would you like to come to our home for some lunch?” Ken asked, understanding that this visit was no coincidence.

“I could really go for some mac-cheese,” Carolyn said.

Barbara turned misty. “Your mother used to always come over my house and say the same thing. My granddaughter, Claudia, is coming over. She’s about your age and likes macaroni and cheese also.”

“Can I meet her?”

“You sure can, and my son, Richard, would also be very interested in seeing you. You see, Richard and Nathan Pennington were best friends.”

Minutes later, they were standing in the kitchen of the Kiely’s split-level colonial. The interior looked brand new, which Ken explained was the result of a recent renovation. Barbara finally got the color back in her face as she began to boil water for the macaroni.

Dana walked to a sign that read, Welcome to Ken and Barbie’s Kitchen. “Ken and Barbie—I like that. Aren’t you the sickening cute couple.”

The Ken and Barbie reference triggered Carolyn, “Aunt Dana, I need to give my Barbies a bath. Maybe we should go home so I can do that?”

She definitely was homesick.

“In a few days, Carolyn.”

She sighed. “I just can’t get a break.”

They moved into a modern-looking living room. A local news program was playing in the background on a fifty-inch, high definition shrine that anchored the room. Dana wandered toward photos hanging on the wall. “Is this your son?” she asked, pointing to a pale, blond man around thirty with a milk-stained mustache. With him was a young girl with wild blonde hair, who appeared to be about Carolyn’s age.

“That’s my Richard and his daughter, Claudia. They live in Troy, about twenty minutes from here,” Barbara said proudly. Her tone then turned sour when she mentioned that Richard was raising Claudia alone after her mother ran off to California with another man.

Billy had seen that play before, but he didn’t have time to bond in misery. He needed answers fast. “You said Richard and Nathan Pennington were friends?”

Barbara answered, “Nathan was disfigured. All the older children in the neighborhood used to tease him and call him E.T.,” she paused, lost in a sad moment from the past, before adding, “Kids can be so mean. He was such a sad child, used to stare out a window in the Pennington’s house, watching the children ride bikes or play kick-the-can, or whatever they did back then. That was back when children actually played together outdoors and not sit in a dark room playing with their video games.”

Ken interjected, “I know it sounds self-serving, but I was so proud of Richard for befriending Nathan. The Pennington kids became regulars over here. The other kids in the neighborhood turned on Richard, but they didn’t know any better, they were taught that garbage at home. Some of the parents actually started rumors that Nathan had AIDS.”

“And that Beth,” Barbara said, a smile escaping her lips. “She was such a little stinker. I can’t believe little Beth has a child of her own.”

“What did you believe happened to her?” Billy asked.

“The last we saw of them they’d traveled to Manhattan to see a specialist for Nathan’s condition. They took almost nothing when they left, so we were surprised when they didn’t return. We didn’t know what to think, but we knew they were under a lot of stress the last few weeks before they left, and their personalities changed,” Barbara said.

“How so?” Billy asked.

“Like they were scared of something,” Ken said. “We tried to reach out to them, but it was like they didn’t trust anyone.”

“After their disappearance, we were interviewed by the FBI. Their theory was that the Penningtons sold little Beth to the black market to make money to pay Nathan’s bills. Then when their scheme was discovered, they ran to Canada,” Barbara recalled. “We were skeptical, to say the least. But we never saw them again, so we really didn’t know what to think.”

Ken sensed something was up. “We do know they were running from something, and I get the feeling you know who it was.”

Billy didn’t want to reveal the details, but they were out of options, and badly needed an ally. So he recounted the parts of the story he’d pieced together so far about a covert organization called Operation Anesthesia that kidnapped and cultivated children with a rare genetic disorder called CIPA, turning them into a Special Ops fighting force. Dana had taken Carolyn to the bathroom, which allowed Billy to freely tell the tale of deceit, including shootouts at both the cabin and the train station in Schenectady. He detailed the story right up to when they took a seat on the curb in front of the Pennington’s old home.

Ken and Barbie looked stunned, and couldn’t help but to stare at Carolyn upon her return to the room. “You are telling me that she can’t feel pain?” Ken asked. Based on his expression, Billy might as well have told him that she was an alien.

Carolyn sighed apathetically, and then like Mick Jagger being forced to sing “Satisfaction” for the gazillion-and-first time, she said, “I can’t feel my boo-boos.”

“It makes sense,” Ken said, which surprised Billy. He thought he might be forced to put Carolyn’s hand in the boiling water on the stove to make his point, or perform a demonstration in which she dropped heavy objects on herself.

“I remember that the burns on Nathan’s face were the result of sticking his head into a burning fireplace,” Barbara picked up for her husband. “He was only two at the time. Carol Ann said Nathan stuck, and left, his head in the fire because he thought it was ‘pretty.’ We always thought he had some problem with self-mutilation, or some inner-demon worthy of an exorcist. He would do these horrible things like biting off his tongue.”

Carolyn stuck out her own tongue, which still had visible stitches. Barbara looked horror-struck. Billy couldn’t tell if she saw Carolyn’s tongue or Nathan’s from twenty years ago. But then all thoughts returned to the present.

The front door opened and voices echoed throughout the house.

Chapter 64

“Mom—Dad—we’re here,” shouted the male voice. A young girl’s voice followed in echo.

It was Ken and Barbara’s son and granddaughter.

Their son, Richard, burst into the living room half into a sentence, “Sorry it took us so long, but there’s a kidnapper on the loose, if you can believe that. Some lunatic named Harper, or something like that. There are roadblocks everywhere.”

Billy’s heart sank. Part of him knew it was a matter of time before the investigation revealed that it wasn’t him and Carolyn in that fire, and would declare her “missing.” And when her parents also turned up missing, suspicion would logically turn to her babysitter. Billy knew he could’ve been spotted with Carolyn anywhere from Montreal to Schenectady. And they had been careless since arriving in the area. They could have been identified by the caretaker from the elderly Steve Pennington’s house, or perhaps it was the reason Martin suddenly bolted. Maybe it was the delivery boy from last night, the clerk at CVS, or the guy working the front desk at the motel. The possibilities were endless, and not even worth pondering right now.

Richard looked at the unmentioned visitors with surprise. His blond hair was poofier than the picture, and his mustache was furrier. He had large, tanned forearms, and wore a short sleeve golf shirt despite the cool October temps.

“Honey, I’d like you to meet Billy Harper, Dana Boulanger, and Carolyn Whitcomb,” Barbara said.

His pale face reddened with trepidation. “What’s going on here?”

“I met these people while your father and I were out walking this morning. I invited them in for some…”

“Mac-cheese,” Carolyn butted in excitedly.

Claudia locked eyes on Carolyn and they traded excited looks. “We are going get to eat mac-cheese?”

Richard ignored the children. “Mom, the police are looking for these people. They said they are armed and dangerous. They’re fugitives!”

“I think you should talk to them,” Barbara said.

“What could a kidnapper and I have to talk about? Are they threatening you?”

Billy pointed toward Carolyn. “This is Carolyn Whitcomb. Her mother is Beth Whitcomb. But her original name is Beth Pennington. You know, Nathan’s little sister.”

He appeared disoriented. “What is this?”

“He’s telling the truth,” Ken said.

“They are running from the law. They will say anything not to get caught.”

Billy jumped in, providing the Cliff Notes version of the story, including why the police believed he had kidnapped Carolyn. It sounded crazier each time he told it, but it contained some undeniable facts, such as the photos and letters from the Evelyn package.

Richard turned to his daughter. “Claud, why don’t you and Carolyn go with Grandma and eat some of that macaroni and cheese.”

They gaily left together, shadowing Barbara into the kitchen.

“So you think Nathan might be alive?” he asked, his tone said they had piqued his interest. But the cynical twitch of his mustache indicated the sales pitch wasn’t complete.

“We aren’t sure, Richard,” Dana said.

“Call me Rich.”

Less formality was a good sign. Billy continued, “We don’t know, Rich, but we know we have to get to North Carolina to get answers from the Dr. Jordan I mentioned.”

“We do know that Beth is in trouble,” Dana added.

His face traveled back into history. “That was so many years ago. I always wondered what happened to them. Beth used to tattle on Nate and me all the time. I can still hear her whiny voice, ‘Mrs. Kiely—Richard and Nathan are pulling my hair!’ She was a stickler for the rules,” he said with a reminiscing smile.

“That sounds like Beth,” Dana said, joining him in a smile.

“Did Nathan ever try to contact you?” Billy asked.

“I haven’t heard from him since they left. God, what were we, like, nine?”

“How about the FBI—an agent named Hasenfus?” Dana asked.

“Just when they interviewed my parents. But like I said, I was just a kid. I don’t remember the guy’s name.”

The television seemed to pick up volume without anyone touching it. Photos of Billy and Carolyn plastered on the screen, accompanied by unflattering terms like kidnapping, armed and dangerous, and history of violence. Roadblocks were everywhere. They had been spotted just blocks away on Rockland Drive.

Sirens screeched through the walls. Helicopters could be heard above the house. They were trapped!

And the deflating part was that the kidnapping charges were the lesser of the evils. Billy knew if the authorities took him into custody, then Operation Anesthesia would have a free shot at Carolyn. With her parents captured, he and Dana were her last line of defense.

Rich Kiely seemed to be grappling about what to do. Nathan was from a different life, a long time ago, and he had Claudia to think about.

“She really can’t feel anything?” he asked. It was like the jury asking for some transcript before they render their verdict. What did it mean?

“Yes.”

“And you think Nathan had the same thing?”

“Yes.”

He nodded. “It makes sense now.”

“We don’t have much time,” Billy urged.

“What can we do to help?” Rich pledged his support, following an obvious internal struggle. “Nathan deserved better in this world. And I know how hard it is to raise a child without a mother. I want Carolyn to have her mother.”

Support was great, but they had to get out of the area, and fast. But how? Carolyn and Claudia returned, appearing spooked by the nervous energy of the adults. Kids could read that scent like a shark sniffing blood.

Billy moved toward a front window and strategically slid the curtain just enough to stealthily peek out. He noticed a police car drive by and jerked his head back to safety. But then like magic, he morphed into the calm quarterback. He would be the leader, and needed to transform his calm to the others.

Upon another glance out the window, he noticed a group of children around Carolyn’s age, who were huddled by the sidewalk. Billy called Barbara to the window and inquired about them.

Barbara followed his lead. “Those children are waiting for the bus to take them to afternoon kindergarten.”

Billy suddenly had a plan. But he needed to know where a few things were located in Schenectady. Ken retrieved an area map and laid it out on the kitchen table. Billy found a highlighter pen and began marking points.

In a division playoff game during Billy’s senior year of high school, their opponent scored with only six seconds left in the game to take the lead. It was a death sentence—they had no chance—all Altoona had to do was kickoff and the game would be over. Coach, as he always did, was able to put their predicament into philosophical eloquence. “Boys—you fought a good fight, but sometimes in life you find yourself in a position when you are royally screwed. So if you are getting screwed, you might as well relax and enjoy it.”

Coach then called a trick play called the “muddle huddle.” On the kickoff, all of the Johnstown players ran to their own player who’d received the ball on the kickoff, like they were going to tackle him. They surrounded him, playing possum, waiting for the other team to run to tackle them and end the game. “Why don’t you run?” the fans yelled.

But just as the opposing team arrived at what looked like a team that was giving up, all eleven players broke in different directions like a jailbreak—it was chaos. And by the time they realized that Billy Harper was streaking down the sidelines with the ball in his hands, it was too late. He galloped untouched to the end zone and Johnstown had rescued victory from the jaws of defeat. The Trojan Horse had nothing on the muddle huddle.

Billy took one more look out the window and then gathered everyone in the living room. He talked over the sirens.

“Folks—we are about to run the muddle huddle.”

Chapter 65

Dana held Carolyn’s hand as they stood waiting at the bus stop, mingling among five other rambunctious kindergartners. The story was that Barbara’s son and daughter-in-law, Nadia—being played by the actress named Dana—had just moved back in with them due to the recession and this was the first day at a new school for their daughter, Claudia.

The actress-in-training, Carolyn, seemed to be enjoying the role-playing. She was playing the lead role of Claudia in the off-Broadway performance of “The Muddle Huddle.” She was also excited about returning to school—even if she was a little apprehensive about going to a new one. Will Ms. Stevens be my teacher? Are we gonna get to color? I really like to color. Will I get a water bottle like at my old school? Dana did have to remind her that while she was four years old, she would be five on the kindergarten bus. The irony was like an anvil to the head.

Barbara continued chatting with the group of mothers. Some talked about the crazed kidnapper spotted in the area. “Those are things that happen in other people’s neighborhoods,” said a mother in curlers. “I figured school would be the safest place for my Lucy to be,” added a young Asian woman who was bundled in a heavy overcoat. They all agreed with the notion, and another mother mentioned that the mayor was just on the news and he encouraged families send their children to school, since it would be the last place a wanted fugitive would go.

When Billy was formulating this plan, Barbara had explained that they never could have pulled this off a few years ago. Everybody in the neighborhood knew each other back then. Everybody knew each other’s kids. But that was a generation ago. The Kielys were now tops in seniority within the neighborhood, and had little connection with any family outside of the Garcias. All those they’d once been close to had moved away.

The school bus eased to a stop in front of the curb. Dana turned emotional, playing the role of a mother sending her child off to school for the first time, always a tearjerker. But her emotions were real, she wasn’t that good of an actress. The other mothers looked at her like they were remembering the time they sent their own children off for the first time. They understood.

“You be a good little girl,” Dana said.

“I promise, no Dracula jokes.”

Dana couldn’t help but smile at her. But it was short-lived, as an image shot into her mind of Beth splitting from her family. They hadn’t been seen since. But Dana knew this was the only way. The police would be looking for a man and a little girl. There was only one place she would blend into the woodwork—among a group of other children her age.

“You know how much we love you, right…Claudia?”

Carolyn smiled mischievously. “Yes…Mom.”

Barbara then seamlessly played the role of the comforting grandmother, putting her arm around Dana as they watched Carolyn board the bus, the real Claudia’s Hannah Montana lunchbox swinging at her side. Carolyn wore an autumn sweater, a plaid skirt with white stockings, and a shiny black pair of Mary Janes on her feet. Her hair was combed straight, without her usual bangs.

Dana wasn’t sure how they’d been spotted, whether it was Martin reporting them, or some random passerby. But regardless, they were now going to try to twist it to their advantage. Billy knew they would be looking for a little girl in a green and yellow Siena sweatshirt with double ponytails flowing off the sides of her head like a fountain. One of the few advantages in their favor was that nobody would suspect such an impromptu wardrobe change. To get clothes, they would have to buy them or steal them. But they didn’t count on Claudia Kiely keeping clothing and other items like lunchboxes at her grandparents’ house. And as luck would have it, she happened to be a similar size as Carolyn.

But then another surprise happened. A uniformed man got off the bus. He appeared to be a security guard and Dana’s heart somersaulted. Her paranoid eyes caught a glimpse of a gun in his waistband—he was armed.

“I just want to assure you that the Schenectady school district is taking all precautions to keep your children safe with this kidnapper on the loose. Security, like myself, will be on all buses, just as we will when your children return home,” he announced.

If not for their perilous circumstances, Dana might have laughed out loud at the notion that this rent-a-cop thought he could stop Operation Anesthesia. But as Carolyn marched happily onto the bus, another thought pounded Dana between the eyes. What if he was one of them?

There was nothing she could do now. Carolyn moved to the back of the bus, energetically waving to Dana out the back window. A big smile erupted onto Carolyn’s face. She was happy to be going to school—a return to the structure children crave.

Dana held her breath, hoping it wasn’t her last image of Carolyn.

Chapter 66

Rich Kiely drove east on Lyndon. His tanned forearm was resting on the door of the convertible Camaro, as it always was, and he wore his mirrored sunglasses on this sunless day. He looked like he should be cruising down Sunset Boulevard, not a residential street in upstate New York.

Claudia was strapped into the backseat in a car seat she outgrew about a year ago. Her blonde hair was flying back in the wind like a cape. She wore a green and yellow colored Siena sweatshirt. It was by design.

Within minutes, they hit a police roadblock. As expected, suspicions were piqued by a thirty-something male transporting a young girl matching Carolyn’s description.

“Please step out of the car, sir,” a young officer said with an accusatory glare.

Rich Kiely didn’t act a bit guilty. He got out, his hands where the officer “could see them.” He was commanded to place his hands on the car, and he followed orders. They searched him, but found nothing of note.

“My name is Richard Kiely, and this is my daughter Claudia. We live in Troy. We were visiting my mother and father who live on East Lyndon Street.”

The officer reached into Rich’s pocket and removed his wallet. He handed it to another officer, while holding a gun on Rich with his other hand. This was no routine traffic stop.

The other officer trekked to his squad car, presumably to research the man who was calling himself Rich Kiely. He soon returned without a smoking gun. Or any connection to the kidnapper. The car was registered to Richard Kiely, the picture of the driver’s license matched him, and his story about living in Troy and the parents in Schenectady added up. Mainly because it was true. The truth will set you free. At least that was the plan.

After a few inquisition-type questions about the Siena sweatshirt, the young officer said, “We are sorry to bother you, Mr. Kiely. With a kidnapper on the loose, we can take no chances.”

Rich nodded pleasantly. “As you can see, I have a daughter myself, officers. Keep up the good work.”

Then Rich Kiely and Claudia drove away toward the spot Billy Harper designated they go.

Chapter 67

After the bus left, Dana and Barbara hurried back to the Kiely’s house where Ken’s Dodge Ram pickup truck was waiting for them, the engine already running. They followed Carolyn’s bus toward Elmer Avenue Elementary School at a safe distance, traveling northwest, directly opposite Rich and Claudia. They made a slight right onto Carman Road, drove less than a mile, and then took a right onto Curry Road. The bus made three stops.

Then in muddle huddle fashion, they veered away from the bus. Dana had to force herself not to take a last look at Carolyn, which took all her strength. They merged onto the highway, I-890 West, and drove for three miles before taking the Michigan Avenue exit.

At the bottom of the exit ramp was the expected flashing lights of a police blockade. Dana pulled down her baseball hat as far as she could, her stomach tumbling. She knew if Martin or the Pennington caretaker had been the one to ID them to police, then they likely mentioned the female accomplice who matched Dana’s description. But they were betting that the police were focusing on a male kidnapper and the little girl who’d been missing for three days. Time was always of the essence in these cases and the police were already playing catch-up. And it wasn’t like Carolyn could be stashed in the trunk. It was an open pickup cab. But she knew if they lost this bet, the price would be Carolyn’s life.

Like Dana, Barbara also wore a midnight blue Yankees baseball cap with a dark ponytail flowing out of the back. They could pass for mother and daughter, which was the plan.

The officer checked Barbara’s ID without a blink. Then he made her remove her hat and sunglasses. He turned to Dana, who did the same hat removal, hoping whoever ratted them out didn’t give a good description of the female accomplice. She didn’t like the way he looked at her, but she was suspicious of the way everybody looked at her right now.

“While we’re young, miss,” the officer said with his hand out.

Dana looked perplexed. “What?”

Barbara stepped in. “This is my daughter. We’re traveling to my son’s home in Troy for the evening.”

“All well and good, ma’am, but I’m going to need some ID.”

“I don’t have any ID on me,” Dana said with her most convincing look of puzzlement.

“Why would she have ID on her? She isn’t driving,” Barbara stepped in on her “daughter’s” behalf.

“I guess I could go back to your house, Mom, and get it.”

“I guess we’ll have to,” Barbara said with a frustrated moan. She pulled out her phone and began to dial. “I’ll call Rich and let him know we’ll be a little late.”

The officer’s heavy sigh indicated they were wasting his time. “Go ahead,” he said with the hint of an attitude and walked to the next car.

Barbara and Dana let out sighs of relief. They then drove to the train station, where Dana purchased three Amtrak tickets to Penn Station in New York City with her credit card.

Chapter 68

Mitchell Jones had set up shop in Schenectady, and was tightening the noose around Carolyn Whitcomb.

Not only were they chasing Carolyn, but they also had to beat the local police to her. The police and FBI had been tripping over themselves since they discovered Carolyn Whitcomb and Billy Harper didn’t die in that fire on Lake George. When the parents then turned up “missing,” they became suspicious of a possible kidnapping. Security cameras caught Harper and the girl at train stations in Schenectady and Albany last night. But it wasn’t until a cab driver reported that he thought the kidnapping suspects might be his passengers, after hearing a radio report about a kidnapped girl, that they were able to pinpoint Harper to Rockland Drive. A police dragnet was immediately coordinated in the area, making Jones’s job more challenging. But he smiled, exposing his stained teeth—he lived for a challenge.

The capture of Carolyn Whitcomb was not the job they would highlight in bold on their résumés. But what do you expect when they put Stipe in charge? Jones thought. Stipe had his day, but he never adapted—he was an arrogant dinosaur. Creatures that were strong, aggressive, and arrogant, but what did it get them? Only the fittest survive. And mental fitness was just as important as the physical, and often more vital.

The arrogance so clouded Stipe’s head that he often missed the obvious, and had done so again in this case. He was so focused on his prey—the Carolyn trophy he’d hang on his mantle—that he didn’t see the significance of their search of all the Steve Penningtons in the area. Jones knew of this search because he took the extra step to pay the whistle-blowing cabbie a visit, disguised as an FBI agent, to discuss a few loose threads. Could it be a simple coincidence that they sought out the father of Nathan Pennington, one of Operation Anesthesia’s first ever recruits? Jones knew it wasn’t. But why?

As he continued to chomp on his cigarette, it hit him. Operation Anesthesia had never found Elizabeth Pennington; she had been on Anesthesia’s Most Wanted list for over twenty years. Beth Pennington. And what was the common denominator that connected Harper to this? Harper was living with Elizabeth Whitcomb. Beth Whitcomb. He laughed out loud. They had captured her and didn’t even know it—Elizabeth Pennington was Beth Whitcomb!

His first instinct was to go to the old Pennington house on East Lyndon Street. Maybe the ghosts would talk to him. But he didn’t see anyone. The new owners seemed to be away on vacation. He sat across the street in a Range Rover, hidden in the shadows, plotting his next move. That’s when he noticed the students boarding a school bus across the street. His eyes locked onto one of the little girls climbing aboard.

It was Carolyn Whitcomb.

His eyes then caught Dana Boulanger, who was trying to act the part of a doting mother sending her child off to school. He could’ve grabbed Dana, but he had no use for her. A better plan was to follow the school bus to its destination and secure the girl. She was the precious cargo. And when he pulled it off, there was no way they could overlook his talents again. He would be made head trainer.

Chapter 69

Ken escorted Billy back to the old Pennington house. The Kielys didn’t have a lot of friends remaining in the neighborhood, but the Garcias were a new couple they had met while they both were out power-walking last spring. They were different—younger and more adventurous than the retired Kielys, but they bonded. And the Garcia’s daughter, Estella, had become close with Claudia. They would often get together when Rich was up visiting, including a picnic last Fourth of July.

They were currently on a hiking trip in Vermont, having taken the family SUV, and leaving Frank Garcia’s motorcycle behind. Frank had left an extra house key with Ken in case there was an emergency while they were away. This would definitely qualify.

Ken punched in the electronic alarm code to deactivate, and then used his key to open the garage. Following the plan, Billy Harper, now dressed in Ken’s old leather jacket and jeans, straddled the motorcycle and fit the helmet on his head. He purred the engine, and then took off toward Elmer Avenue Elementary.

Ken waited exactly two minutes, before shutting the garage and resetting the alarm. It was show time. He picked a large rock from the garden and threw it through the Garcia’s garage window. He then reached in through the broken glass and unlatched the lock with his gloved hand. He lifted the garage door, purposely tripping the silent alarm.

Ken then dialed 911 on his cell phone. He told the operator that he was startled by a noise coming from the Garcia’s home across the street. And when he looked out his window, he witnessed a man fitting the description of wanted fugitive Billy Harper, who he’d seen on the news. He claimed he saw the man throw a rock through the garage door and then steal Frank Garcia’s motorcycle. The man fitting Harper’s description then took off with a child hanging onto the back.

Within what seemed like seconds, police piled into the Garcia’s driveway. Ken met them and retold the story he told the 911 operator. He then pointed the police in an eastbound direction, which was the opposite of where Billy went.

The police thanked Ken for his bravery in performing his civic duty, and told him they might need him at a later time to identify Billy Harper and the child after they inevitably apprehended him. They hung yellow police tape at the scene and departed.

Ken returned to an empty house, hoping he did the right thing. It was hard to imagine that a simple Friday morning walk with his wife could turn into a Robert Ludlum novel. He sat on his couch watching the news coverage. His body shook. He guessed this was how the Penningtons felt when they were forced to flee. That’s why their personality changed those last months, he knew now.

A few minutes later, an FBI agent named Hasenfus arrived at his door. He claimed to be coordinating with the local police investigation, so Ken retold the exact story he told the police. The FBI agent thanked Ken for his bravery in performing his civic duty, and headed after Billy Harper.

Chapter 70

Billy flew up Brandywine Avenue on the motorcycle. He was no Calvin Rose by any means, but he was being fueled by something stronger than adrenaline—pure panic. He swung a left at Union Avenue and then made another quick left onto Elmer Avenue.

Elmer Avenue Elementary School was a three-story, block-shaped brick building that looked like it was built prior to World War II. He wasn’t sure what a typical Friday consisted of at the school, but doubted there was normally this much hubbub. And he was sure the presence of this many uniformed security guards was due to reports of a violent kidnapper on the loose.

He maneuvered toward the school zone, where crossing guards were walking afternoon kindergartners across the street with hand-held stop signs. Most of the crossing-guards appeared to be elderly women trying to keep busy during retirement, and weren’t prepared for what was going to be the lead story on the six o’clock news.

Billy kept the visor of his helmet down as he inched closer to the school, having to hold back his overwhelming desire to rush. He waved at the white-haired crossing-guard and moved toward the front of the school, where he spotted a bus pull to a stop.

One by one the young students got off the bus, escorted by a security guard. Parents and teachers huddled near them. Talk of kidnappers had brought out all the protectors, and anxiety hung like a dark cloud over the area.

Carolyn was the eighth student off the bus. She fit in perfectly with the other students in a jolly munchkin-march to the school, tightly gripping their precious lunchboxes. Billy actually smiled at the fact she appeared to have already made friends. It was her M.O.—always full of life and infectiously transferring it to others. He also noticed a joyful hop in her step. They led her to believe she was really going to school today. It was the sense of normalcy she craved. He vowed to get her back into her own bed, with Beth tucking her in and Chuck singing to her. That would be true normalcy.

It was time to make his move. He hadn’t counted on so many people and security, but rationalized that the chaos might be a help. It didn’t matter, because it was do or die…again.

He brashly sped toward her, skidding to a sweeping stop in front of the sidewalk. “Carolyn—over here!”

Carolyn stopped in her tracks, fixated on the motorcycle. As did a whole group of teachers, parents, and security. Billy didn’t have a second to waste.

“Carolyn—get on!”

“Billy and Aunt Dana told me to go to school. I’m not falling for that one again,” she replied.

Billy didn’t want to take the helmet off and ID himself, but she left him no choice. Her lack of gullibility would normally protect her from a kidnapping situation, but it was working against her here. Billy felt the adults closing in.

He lifted off the helmet.

Carolyn’s face lit up. “Billy, you got a motorcycle!”

“C’mon, get on!”

She appeared to think about it for a moment, and then responded, “No, I think I’d rather go to school.”

“You gotta be kidding me,” he mumbled to himself. “Carolyn, get on now!”

“I wanna play with my new friends, Billy.”

The mention of Billy’s name triggered everyone. The kidnapper. Armed and dangerous. The motorcycle made him appear even more devious and ready for flight. Mothers were grabbing their children; a security guard had pulled a gun.

“Carolyn, please come,” he pleaded.

“You said I could go to school.”

“Can’t a boy change his mind?” he attempted humor.

“I wanna go to school,” she implored. She was desperate to get back to normalcy. Her emotions were unraveling.

“Hold it right there!” the security guard yelled.

A mother screamed.

A teacher ran toward Carolyn in an attempt to “save her” from the kidnapper. Another screamed. Chaos reigned.

Carolyn blew a circuit. She turned into a frozen statue, her lunchbox helplessly falling to the ground.

“Carolyn!” Billy shouted again.

She didn’t even hear him. The noose was tightening around her. Her eyes welled and tears fell down her cheeks. But she didn’t move.

Billy surveyed his limited options, understanding he might have to shoot his way out of this one. He felt for the gun in the pocket of the leather jacket—the same one Dana had pulled on him. He put the kickstand down on the bike, got off, and headed for the frozen little girl. Stick together, remember?

That’s when he saw a bigger problem than the security guard, or the sound of police sirens closing in. Billy recognized the shadowy figure moving toward Carolyn, and his stomach sank.

Carolyn also noticed him, jarring her out of her trance. She turned toward the man and let out a primal shout. Billy couldn’t believe it came out of such a little girl.

“Osama Banana! Osama Banana! Do something!”

The security guard’s focus shifted away from Billy—the kidnapper—and aimed his gun toward the bearded man who was lying in wait. For a moment, it was as if the guard really believed the world’s most notorious terrorist left his cave in East Nowhere and popped up in Schenectady.

More screams from mothers. More chaos. Carolyn yelled again, “Osama Banana! Get him!”

With all eyes on the crazed gunman, Billy took advantage. He ran to Carolyn and grabbed her. He placed her on the motorcycle and was about to get on behind her and speed away, when his heart sank again. He watched Osama Banana shoot the security guard in cold blood. Carolyn put her hands over her ringing ears. And now the gun was pointed right at Billy.

He had no choice—kill or be killed. He pulled out his gun and thought back to Chuck’s hunting lesson. Lean forward, stabilize, anticipate movement, deep breath, put finger on trigger.

He fired. And the world momentarily froze.

Once again he proved to be no Annie Oakley. He wasn’t sure if he even came close to Banana. He doubted he was even in the vicinity, and counted his blessings that he didn’t hit a child. But it did buy him a few precious seconds. His brazenness surprised Banana, who momentarily ducked for cover. And by the time he refocused his weapon, Billy and Carolyn were speeding down Elmer Avenue.

Billy held Carolyn tightly in his lap. She was still shaken. Not even a motorcycle ride could snap her out of it. He had memorized the directions to the train station. A right onto Eastern Avenue, another right at Morris, then a left onto Union, and finally a left onto Erie Blvd. It was only a mile and a half from the school, but it seemed like they were traveling in molasses. But he kept his eyes on the prize—and followed his own rule—never look in the rear-view mirror.

Chapter 71

Franklin Stipe rumbled his military-looking Hummer in the direction of the surprise party he was going to hold in Billy Harper’s honor. He didn’t doubt that Harper had started in the direction Ken Kiely indicated—Kiely seemed like an honest chap—but Stipe knew Harper had purposely tried to send him on another wild goose chase.

A nice try, but this wasn’t Stipe’s first rodeo, and he wasn’t going to be fooled by these amateurs again. And like most amateurs, if you gave them enough rope they’d hang themselves. And that was exactly what was about to happen here. A smile came over his blistery face, knowing he was about to seal their fate.

He maintained his conquering smile as he drove to the Schenectady Amtrak Station. People do stupid things when they are feeling panic. Or maybe it’s the other way around. But either way, Dana Boulanger purchasing those three train tickets with her very traceable credit card was off-the-charts stupid.

Speaking of stupid, that’s when Stipe heard of the commotion over his police scanner. A security guard was shot while attempting to stop the kidnapper, Billy Harper, at Elmer Avenue Elementary School. But it wasn’t Harper who shot him. The shooting suspect was a wiry thin man with a long, graying beard and ponytail. The suspect had fled the scene.

Stipe grew angry at Jones, but not for his stupidity. That was a given. It was for lack of loyalty. Jones was his protégé, and Stipe believed if it wasn’t for him, Jones would be some combination of dead, strung out on drugs, or in prison. It was obvious that Jones didn’t understand the pecking order, and attempted to play hero. His beloved Herbert Spencer didn’t teach him the most important law of nature—that Stipe was always the one standing in the end.

Stipe avoided the school scene, which thanks to Jones was crawling with police. The detour would only cost him a couple minutes, but the train didn’t leave for another fifteen. A lifetime in his business. He arrived confidently in the train station parking lot and quickly located the motorcycle Harper stole from the Garcia home. He wasn’t sure how Dana Boulanger arrived, but had confirmation that she was the one who had bought the train tickets.

Stipe entered the small train station and grinned at the sight before him. Not only would he get the child, but when he threatened to kill her, Harper would surely give him the location of the remaining Rose brothers. His loyalty was his downfall.

Before him, sitting in a waiting area, sat a man, woman, and a child, thinking they were about to board the getaway train. To make things even better, their backs were to him. The element of surprise was on his side.

He grabbed his gun and readied his false FBI badge, identifying him as Agent Hasenfus. He straightened his suit, put his sunglasses on, and marched toward his prey. There were fewer than ten people in the waiting area. He figured they might give him a standing ovation for taking away the evil kidnapper, and saving poor little Carolyn Whitcomb. He would show Jones what heroism is all about.

He moved right behind the long, brunette ponytail hanging out of the woman’s baseball cap. Low points for creativity on the disguise, but it wouldn’t have mattered. He stood for a moment behind her, enjoying the sounds of their nervous breaths. Now it was show time.

“Freeze—FBI,” he said in a firm voice, but didn’t want to shout it and alarm the other travelers in the station. “Slowly show me your hands and put them in the air.”

The three people followed his instructions. The adults calmly put their hands into the air, while the child shot her hands up with enthusiasm. They didn’t try to run or make a desperate plea. He liked the combination of fear and admiration his prey always displayed toward him upon capture. He maneuvered to face them.

But when he did, his face slumped, and mouth dropped. It wasn’t Billy Harper, Dana Boulanger, and Carolyn Whitcomb he was looking at. It was Richard Kiely, his mother, Barbara, and his daughter, Claudia—headed for a weekend trip to Montreal.

Chapter 72

The last train to Clarksville was a silver Camaro with New York plates. Clarksville, Virginia, that was, to have a little visit with Dr. Samuel Jordan. Billy was behind the wheel, now wearing Rich Kiely’s short sleeve golf shirt, and too energized to feel the cold wind on his bare arms. Dana sat beside him, her ponytail whipping around in the wind.

Having the top of the convertible down was against his better judgment, being that a massive manhunt was likely in hot pursuit, but Carolyn’s requests were hard to turn down after what she’d been through. She was strapped into Claudia Kiely’s car seat in the back.

The muddle huddle had worked as seamlessly as it did against Altoona High. But beating the police was one thing, trying to stay one step ahead of Operation Anesthesia was like running from death. Just putting off the inevitable. Billy and his troops might’ve won the Battle of Muddle Huddle, but were still heavy underdogs in the war.

But Billy chose to grin in the face of death. He visualized the likely looks on Hasenfus and Banana’s faces when they inevitably burst into the train station, only to find a different family heading for a weekend trip to Montreal. Once they learned that they were set up by a bunch of rank amateurs, Billy wasn’t sure how they’d react, so he made an anonymous call to the police, reporting that he witnessed the “kidnapper” at the train station. He figured a police presence would provide temporary security for the Kielys. Anesthesia lived off covertness in the same way that humans lived off oxygen. Dracula never killed anyone in the daylight. Their DNA would be to retreat to darkness, readying themselves to strike again.

Billy knew the minute Dana purchased the train tickets that Operation Anesthesia would be on the train station like paparazzi to celebrity. He used their über-aggressiveness against them. He visualized Coach Blake writing on the blackboard before a game. The bigger they are the harder they fall. The faster they are, the easier they are to be trapped. Sometimes someone’s biggest strength was also their biggest weaknesses. Billy was no different. His loyalty was a duel-edged sword, often his biggest strength, but sometimes his Achilles heel.

The car was on loan from Rich Kiely, and since he didn’t report it stolen, the police wouldn’t be looking for it anytime soon. They swapped it in a quick exchange in the train station parking lot. But it wouldn’t be long before Operation Anesthesia made the connection. And when they did, Billy knew their retaliatory strike would be swift, aggressive, and unrelenting.

Carolyn began the trip in a grumpy mood, annoyed she couldn’t attend school, as was promised. It appeared to be a pretty serious grudge she was holding, because even the motorcycle ride didn’t lift her spirits.

Somewhere along the New York Thruway, her orneriness turned to a bad case of ADD. One moment she was celebrating the opening of the roof of the convertible, and moments later declared it to be “too windy” and demanded it be put back up. For a brief time she happily sang along to Beyonce’s “Crazy in Love”—Uh-oh, Uh-oh, Uh-oh—but then had a meltdown because Billy and Dana didn’t have the forethought to bring along her favorite Barney & Friends CD while they were running for their lives.

Billy glanced back at her. She uncomfortably adjusted herself in Claudia’s car seat. It didn’t fit. It was like wearing somebody else’s clothes, which by the way, she was also doing. She was at the end of the line emotionally. Even though Carolyn was freakishly smart and often appeared wise beyond her age, he had to remind himself that she was only four years old. “Hold on, Carolyn,” he mumbled to himself.

It didn’t take long until Tropical Storm Carolyn upgraded to a hurricane. And she rebelled in a way that only a child who couldn’t feel pain could. She began violently gnawing at her lip until blood began to stream down her chin. It was Dracula the sequel.

“Oh my God!” Dana screamed.

Billy quickly pulled over to the shoulder of the road. “What did you do?” he scolded.

Dana grabbed a towel and practically leapt back over the seat to Carolyn. She then patiently held it over Carolyn’s lip, trying to calm the situation, rather than pour some more gas on her determined little fire. When the bleeding stopped, the tears came. And for twenty minutes Carolyn’s tears didn’t stop. She was at the end of the road. Dana looked at Billy with exasperation. He searched for a comforting look to give her, but he couldn’t find one.

Chapter 73

When they finally returned to the road, Carolyn drifted into a deep slumber. Every last emotion in her tiny body was drained.

Billy kept breaking his own rule by glancing into the rear-view mirror, and analyzing every soft breath the little girl took. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Dana grinning at him.

“What?” he asked.

“Any little girl in this world would be lucky to have you as her father.”

“That coming from someone who just yesterday thought I was a kidnapper.”

Dana smiled as she played with Beth’s BlackBerry, pulling up the Internet. “It’s not just me,” she said and showed Billy the Internet headlines on her screen.

Breaking news: police hunt kidnapper

The vague highlights of the article were that Billy, who allegedly had kidnapped the girl from her parents’ property in Lake George, was spotted with his “victim” Carolyn Whitcomb at the Elmer Avenue Elementary School. Shots were reportedly fired, and eyewitnesses reported that a security guard had been shot and killed, although the police had yet to confirm it. The police did release a joint statement with the FBI, stating that Billy was last seen leaving the school on a motorcycle with Carolyn. He was suspected to be armed and dangerous. They were actively searching the Albany area.

The report also mentioned that the missing girl’s parents were believed to be in seclusion, which was the media’s way of saying that they had yet to find the grieving parents to fully exploit their pain.

Billy didn’t know if the authorities really believed they were still in Albany, or they were trying to get them to let their guard down. The FBI’s presence made him suspicious that the police might believe they had crossed state lines. So Billy planned on operating as if they were right on their tail. Just like Operation Anesthesia probably was.

Dana looked back at Carolyn, who was now peacefully whistling a snore. “I admit, I thought it for a brief moment,” she stressed brief, “but I never for a second thought you would hurt her.”

“That makes me feel a lot better,” Billy said with a sarcastic grin.

Dana remained serious. “I also never believed you did whatever was done to Kelly’s face in that picture. I was right, wasn’t I?”

Billy said nothing, the grin erased from his face.

“Tell me about Kelly.”

“I told you, Dana, I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Not what went down in D.C. or anything related to it. Tell me about when you met her. Why did you fall in love with her?”

He sighed, knowing Dana was relentless when she wanted something and wouldn’t give up until they got to North Carolina. So he cut his losses. “You know, deep down, I think I always knew she didn’t love me. At least in the for better or worse kind of way. It was just so magical in the beginning that I think we were both always trying to recapture the high. When I write stories, I’m in charge of happily ever after. I think I tried to do that in real life, but you can’t force that stuff.”

“At least you put your heart on the line.”

“Whoever coined that crap about better to have love and lost than to never have loved at all, should be sued for slander.”

“So you are saying Romeo and Juliet would’ve been better off without each other?”

“Love is a drug, nothing else. Initial chemical euphoria that people try to recapture like addicts. You never hear people say it’s better to have smoked crack and lost than to never have smoked crack at all.”

“That’s a pretty cynical view,” Dana replied, continuing to surf the Internet on the small handheld device.

“Look at you.”

“What about me?”

“You seem happy, no complexities in your life. You have no baggage. And trust me, Dana, baggage gets heavy when you carry it around all the time.”

Dana nervously adjusted her baseball cap. “That’s because I’ve always been too afraid to put myself on the line. Show me someone my age without any baggage, and I’ll show you someone who hasn’t really lived.”

“Miss Manhattan Style Babe hasn’t lived? Sounds a little hard to believe.”

“I’m not just talking about relationships. I mean with everything in my life. I gave up writing because I was afraid of the rejection, but I stay close to it with the agency. I’m like those people who become friends with those they are in love with. They bask in the glow of the thing that makes their life worth living, but are too afraid to put their heart on the line, fearing it will be ripped out. But you’re actually guaranteeing the rippage, just at a slow, tortuous pace.”

He recognized her words as staring in the mirror. “So who gave you that shot of Novocain in your heart, Dana?”

They passed a sign for Saratoga Springs, now over a hundred miles in the opposite direction. Dana pointed at it. “My father is in a convalescence home in Saratoga ever since his stroke. It’s a really nice place. The best place money can buy if you’re going to live out your life as a vegetable.”

“Better than the supermarket, I guess. What did he do to you, Dana?”

She sniffed, braced herself in the bucket seat, and then told her painful story. Forgetting her at school—walking in the house and hearing the groans from the bedroom—standing there and staring at them for what seemed like days. But the worst part was keeping the secret from her mother because she thought it would crush her.

“That lawyer from the train, Joe Skaggs. The one who rode with Beth on the train the day she was abandoned—he’s still afraid of your father.”

“I think the only person my father truly hurt was himself. He cost himself his family, including a daughter who thought he was the second coming. I think his stroke was caused by him losing his soul.”

“He seems like an odd choice for your mother, from what I’ve heard about her.”

“As you probably have figured out, a genetic family trait with the women in my family is bringing in strays.”

“That letter she wrote was telling.”

“It was. She was a strong woman, but I don’t think she would have ever left him. One thing about bringing in that stray, the bond is unconditional. Nobody is ever beyond saving.”

“Sounds like she was a special lady.”

“She was one of those rare people who truly would sacrifice her own life for others. A lot of people claim they would, but you can count on one hand those who really would give their own life for another. Mom was one of the few.”

“I guess in a way she really did give her life for Beth.”

Dana snuck another peek at sleeping beauty in the back seat. “She would protect Beth and me at any cost, and Beth would do the same for Carolyn.”

Billy nodded. He fully understood.

“After my mother died, for all intents and purposes, I ran away,” Dana continued, her voice full of regret. “I should’ve been there for Beth. She was just a child and I left her in the jungle all by herself. That’s when her problems began.”

Another Coach Blake-ism jumped into Billy’s head, and he passed it on, “Whatever doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, so you can go kill the son of a bitch who tried to kill you.”

“You should give up on novels and write greeting cards.”

“Where’d you run away to?”

She smiled with embarrassment. “I dropped out of BC and went to Paris to try to become a model.”

He couldn’t help but snicker. “I didn’t know people tried to become models. I thought they got discovered in the supermarket by some flamboyant photographer from Europe.”

“It was just an excuse to leave home. I couldn’t stand to be around my father and brothers,” she paused. “You really couldn’t see me strutting my assets down the runway?”

“You are definitely beautiful enough.”

She blushed, but covered it with deflection, “I actually spent most of my time holed up in my apartment, writing. Some pretty dark stuff. I think it was my way of dealing with my mother’s death.”

“You just totally ruined my image of models. I pictured naked pillow fights and snorting coke with Kate Moss.”

“Sorry to disappoint.”

“Can you do the face?”

She looked curiously at him. “The face?”

“You know—the model face. The empty, vamp, I haven’t eaten in six days and I’m really pissed off look.”

Billy did the face, at least his version, and Dana fell into laughter. Then Dana took her best shot and he returned the laugh. They looked like two little kids making fish faces at each other.

Some shuffling could be heard from the backseat as Carolyn awakened. “You two are silly,” she said with a groggy giggle. The nap seemed to have soothed her surly attitude.

Dana put her arm around Billy, and pulled close to give him a peck on the cheek. She whispered in his ear, “I feel like I’m living life when I’m with you.”

He avoided the intimate moment by meticulously viewing the map. “We have a long way to go,” he said.

The statement was both literal (going to Clarksville) and figurative (he was not yet ready to put his heart on the line again). But it was better than being at the end of the road, like when he began this journey. He felt hope.

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.

Chapter 77

Sunday morning, they concealed themselves along the entry road to Jordan Plantation and waited for Jordan to leave. They didn’t have to wait long. By six a.m. he was on the move. They followed at a safe distance in the Camaro. Jordan arrived at his children’s hospital and remained inside throughout the morning.

Carolyn was incarcerated in the backseat. They couldn’t let her out, or even out of the car seat, in case they needed to bolt at a moment’s notice. And no matter how hard she negotiated to “play” in the children’s hospital, that wasn’t happening. Billy had rediscovered his resolve during another sleepless night, no longer willing to surrender to the relentless Operation Anesthesia. If they were going down, they were going down fighting. He knew that’s what Beth and Chuck would want when it came to Carolyn.

In mid-afternoon, Jordan returned to his office at Duke. This was much better for Carolyn because it allowed them to leave the car and mingle among the many students filling the festive campus. When they came across a “face painter” who was providing her services in honor of something called Midnight Madness, Billy saw it as the perfect opportunity to meld into the background. While Carolyn saw it as the final nail in her decision to skip kindergarten and attend Duke. All three of them had their faces painted blue and white.

At quarter past five, with the sun beginning to set, Jordan was on the move again. He strutted across campus until he came to a park-like area just west of the college called Duke Forest, and entered a parking lot that was practically empty. Billy noticed a sad-looking man in a wheelchair who was dressed in army fatigues. He held a sign that proclaimed himself as a war veteran, and begged for money.

Jordan walked past the vet without even a look and entered Duke Forest. Billy could tell by Jordan’s body language that he was distracted by something. Mr. Cool as a Cucumber was now a cat on a hot tin roof. He stopped at a row of picnic tables near a pavilion, reached under one of the tables, and removed a piece of paper. You didn’t have to be Sherlock Holmes to figure out it was planted for him. Jordan hastily digested its contents and began to hike up a dirt path.

With Dana at his side, and Carolyn on his shoulders in piggyback position, Billy followed Jordan at what he hoped was a safe distance. As they moved deeper into the forest, the thick trees blocked out the setting sun. The darkening sky became their friend, conspiring to help them remain stealthy. It was nice to have one thing on their side. Billy clutched his other friend in the pocket of his jeans—the gun.

Things then began to look familiar. Billy noticed that the path had looped back around to where they’d started. And up ahead near the picnic area, Jordan was engaged in a heated conversation with the man in the wheelchair. Billy couldn’t make out what was being said—the deep forest muffling their shouts—but he clearly saw the wheelchair guy pull out a gun. Billy handed Carolyn to Dana, urging them to get back, and then found a safe perch so he could watch the action.

Suddenly Jordan reached in his pocket and pulled out a gun of his own. The man in the wheelchair beat him to the punch. A gunshot echoed through the forest and Jordan fell in a heap onto the ground. The man killed Jordan!

Dana and Carolyn scurried back to Billy’s side, looking relieved he wasn’t the recipient of the loud gunshot. He put his finger to his lips to quiet them. It worked for Dana, but not Carolyn.

“Why is that silly man sleeping in the woods? Doesn’t he know he could get the lime?” she asked, referring to Jordan’s lifeless body.

Shhh.

“Whoa—a wheelchair. I really like wheelchairs!”

Shhh.

The man spun his wheelchair in their direction and locked his sights on them. Billy thought of running, but it was too late. The gun was already pointed in their direction. He didn’t even contemplate pulling his own gun—he’d seen what happened to Jordan when he tried that.

“Put your hands up over your heads and walk very slowly to me,” the man coldly stated. They followed his instructions. The man looked at them with unsure eyes, as if he couldn’t compute what or who they were. Since their faces were painted blue and white, he might’ve thought they were some form of aliens.

“This man,” he pointed at Jordan’s body laying on the ground, “just died for freedom. Do you want to be next?”

Unfazed, Carolyn pointed at the man in the wheelchair and asked, “Who is that?”

Billy had never met the man, but recognized him. He looked just like his brothers. “Carolyn, this is Calvin and Bronson’s brother, André.”

“Who are you?” he demanded, his voice filled with surprise.

“My name is Billy and this is Dana,” Dana actually smiled and waved at the gunman upon the introduction, “and this is Carolyn. She has the anesthesia and Jordan was after her. Calvin and Bronson tried to help us.”

“You saw them?” he asked, letting down his guard. “How are they?”

Their glum faces told the story. Reading their expressions, André threw down his gun in disgust, knowing his brothers were dead. Then he stood, not very well, and limped to Jordan’s body. He struggled with each step—the wheelchair was not a prop. He kicked Jordan as hard as he could, before his wobbly legs gave out. He fell to his knees and started throwing punches at the dead man’s chest.

“Wake up you sonofabitch so I can kill you again!”

Billy could feel his agony filling the forest.

Dana bravely approached André and tried to console him. She then helped him limp back to his wheelchair. He slumped into the seat and planted his face in his hands. He spoke in muffled a tone, “I warned my mother about getting them involved, they didn’t even know the outside or freedom, it was just a fairy tale to them. Operation Anesthesia was all they knew. But my mother believed that freedom was worth any risk or sacrifice.

“Bronson had the knowledge base. He always hung on my stories of the outside, and soaked up knowledge like a sponge. But he didn’t have the mental makeup to handle it. Calvin was just a pup in the woods. He was lost in this world.”

“I can tell you, André, that their short time in freedom gave them life for the first time,” Billy said.

He nodded, his regret temporarily soothed. He then seemed to regain his sense of purpose, and stated, “We have to get out of here before anyone discovers the body.”

They ventured back toward the parking lot. Dana offered to push André’s chair, but he insisted on doing it himself. Billy figured it was the same intestinal fortitude that helped him escape Operation Anesthesia. You would think that leaving the scene of a murder would quicken the pace, but they all remained calm. They were numb to the whole thing at this point. And being an unofficial expert on numbness, this worried Billy.

André drove them in his van to a nondescript, one-room apartment in the neighboring city of Raleigh. It was a mess, but not in the unsanitary way Bronson’s was. It was the mess of someone doing work, sort of like when Billy was in the thralls of writing. André was already one step ahead of them.

He was planning on breaking into Jordan Plantation.

Chapter 78

Billy closely analyzed André during the drive over. The first thing he noticed was the rose tattoo on his bulging bicep, similar to his brothers. But one thing differing from his brothers was the cadence of his voice. More human, and less robotic. Billy remembered Calvin mentioning that André had come to the camp from the outside world.

Physically, André’s face was lined with experience. He carried the same burden under his eyes as his brothers, but while they appeared apprehensive and almost childlike, André seemed eager to plant his feet and fight the monster.

“I want to show you something,” he said to Billy, as he dead-bolted the apartment door behind them.

Billy turned to Dana. “Maybe you can get Carolyn something to eat. She hasn’t eaten anything since breakfast.

“That’s a good idea,” Dana said, catching on.

“I have peanut butter and jelly,” André offered.

“Between you and me, I’d rather eat than hear one of Billy’s stories.”

“No, the sandwich,” Dana explained.

“Now you’re talking. I love the PB and J!” Carolyn endorsed in do-ra-mi style, and then trailed Dana into the small kitchen.

Billy followed André’s wheelchair into the lone bedroom. It looked like a stalkers room, photos of Jordan were splashed everywhere. Like those long distance shots of a celebrity on vacation taken by the stalkarazzi. Jordan leaving the plantation—Jordan at the children’s hospital—Jordan on the Duke campus.

André had constructed a map of the plantation on what looked like an architect’s workstation. The drawing was amateurish, but his knowledge was anything but. He had marked areas where cameras and security stations loomed.

“My plan wasn’t to shoot him, it was to use him to get me inside,” he said, his eyes never leaving the map of the plantation. “I don’t have much time. With my knowledge base of their operation, I’m a lethal weapon to them. They won’t stop until they get me.”

“Why didn’t you go to the authorities?”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Because they believe I kidnapped Carolyn. And if I’m arrested, then there will be nobody to protect her from Operation Anesthesia.”

“What do you know about Operation Anesthesia?”

“I know the camp is located at Jordan Plantation, at least I think it is. I know they are after kids with CIPA, or the anesthesia, as you call it. I know they are trying to capture Carolyn. Calvin told me they train the kids to turn them into some military unit, and that’s what went down in Iran.”

André nodded, appearing impressed by Billy’s knowledge level. But his troubled eyes said there was a lot more to the story. “There are two parts to Operation Anesthesia. One is as you said, a military aspect that trains the children, turning them into relentless soldiers. Their painlessness might be a disadvantage in the civilian world, but it turns to an advantage when it comes to covert military operations.”

André continued, “The other part is a breeding center. They capture those who carry the mutated gene that causes the anesthesia, and breed them.”

“That’s why Calvin understood horse breeding terms like dam, foal, and stallion.”

“And why you are wrong to think Carolyn is the sole focus.”

Billy felt acid gather in the back of his throat. Beth and Chuck aren’t being used as collateral—they’re being used to breed!

“Breeding is the key to the operation. That’s how they get the numbers,” André confirmed his thoughts. “And speaking from experience, Carolyn’s initial role will to be used as psychological blackmail to make sure her parents accept their fate. She will then be trained as a soldier, her memories of the outside world washed from her brain. And once she reaches her teenage years, she will be sent on dangerous missions. Eventually, she will become a breeder herself.”

“So your mother and father are at the camp?” Billy asked.

“My father died years ago. He was a jazz musician who had come to America from France. He couldn’t handle being confined in that place, it was like prison to him. He stopped eating, and slowly withered away until he died. But yes, my mother is still there, along with fifteen of my brothers and sisters.

“They created a so-called utopian society. Families raising children without any financial worries or competitive stress. Most people give in, able to rationalize their loss of freedom.”

“But not you?” Billy asked, still trying to get his head around the number fifteen.

“I was already thirteen at the time I was captured. I’d been exposed to freedom. I’d rather live as a peasant with freedom than a king in shackles.”

Billy noticed a copy of Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address tacked to the wall like a poster.

André caught his glance. “My mother made me memorize it when I was a kid. She told me it represented the universal fight for freedom. She’s a big fan of freedom.”

Billy nodded as he read: A new nation conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.

“So how did you pull off the escape? Calvin began to tell us—said that he and Bronson followed your lead—but as he liked to say, time was limited. ”

André smiled with pride. “A lot of things came together. First off, like I said, my mother was one of the three original women brought to the camp. She sired almost twenty children with Operation Anesthesia, and once even had six at one time. She built up so much trust with Jordan that he made her his personal chef when she could no longer breed. But he underestimated my mother.”

“But you escaped in Iran. I doubt your mother went with you on a mission.”

“There was no way to escape from within the camp. They can talk about all that utopian society stuff all they want, the reason nobody leaves is that the place has more security than the White House. I knew I had to get off campus.”

“So it wasn’t a coincidence that the three of you ended up on the Iran mission?”

“That’s correct. Because of the trust level my mother developed, she was able to learn how to manipulate the listening devices they implanted in everyone at the camp. She knew the camp had become arrogantly lax, overlooking certain security steps, which allowed us to talk freely and hash out our plan.”

Something clicked in Billy’s mind. “Did Jordan refer to your mother as Miss Rose?”

He looked surprised. “Yes, surnames at the camp are the first names of the mother, or dam, as they call it. My real name was André Boudreaux, but I hadn’t used it in so long I almost forgot it. My mother’s name was Rose Caldwell-Boudreaux.”

“I met her when Jordan had Carolyn over for dinner. She served the meal.”

His face filled with concern. “How long ago was this?”

“A few weeks.”

“Was it after Iran?”

“Yes.”

He blew out a slow sigh of relief. “I was worried they’d harm her after our escape.”

Billy got back on track. “How did you involve Calvin and Bronson?”

“We taught them to remove the listening device. They were hesitant at first—the camp was all they knew—but Mom convinced them. She was a great storyteller and without the restraints of the device, she could tell them stories of the miracles in Montreal. She made getting to freedom sound like they would be going to heaven. But there was still a big problem: I had already gone on my last mission and was scheduled to begin a life of studding.”

“Good work if you can get it. Sounds like they underestimated you, just as they did your mother.”

“I asked for one last mission in Iran. I played it up to the trainers that I was from the outside and knew the threat of nuclear war and what Iran could do with those potential weapons. I told them I wanted my legacy to be putting an end to the threat. Luckily they bought it, and I was able to get on one final mission with Calvin and Bronson. Then all we had to do was wait for our opportunity.”

“They never suspected you beforehand?”

“I put my life on the line for them for twenty years. And my experience on a difficult mission like Iran could’ve meant the difference between success and failure. I was their most loyal soldier and have the debilitated joints to prove it. I had no idea the damage I was doing to my body because I couldn’t feel a thing,” he tapped his wheelchair to make his point. “They trusted in my loyalty. But what I’ve learned over the years is that loyalty will put you in harm’s way.”

The loyalty he talked of could’ve referred to his joints, or to the doctor his mother naively trusted, who had plotted to take them captive. Or perhaps he was warning Billy about the perils of his dangerous devotion to Carolyn.

Then like a professor, André moved to his detailed map of the plantation. He pointed out weak points where he thought they could best attack. Red Xs marked security cameras, while blue Ss signified security posts. Points of interests were highlighted, such as the slave quarters where the other CIPA soldiers were incarcerated. Also the stables in which the “stallions” like Chuck were kept, and entrances to underground tunnels where Beth and André’s mother were likely detained.

André indicated that they had a small window of opportunity to get in. He believed Jordan’s death would create a brief interlude of chaos as the trainers and doctors battled for control, in which the plantation would be vulnerable. But they would have to strike quick.

When class ended, they returned to the living room. Dana was focusing on the small screen of Beth’s BlackBerry. Carolyn was making quick work of her sandwich and washing it down with milk, the traditional white. They both looked like they were ready for Halloween, their faces still painted Duke colors.

“Does the name Hasenfus mean anything to you?” Billy asked André.

He shrugged. “Nobody actually gave their real names. They spoke in code, things like Lead Doctor, or Trainer #3. But through my mother, I learned two names. The lead doctor was Samuel Jordan, which allowed me to track him down. I’ve been in the area for a month doing reconnaissance on him.”

“What was the other name?”

“The head trainer’s name was Stipe, but I’ve yet to locate him.”

Dana used Google to search the name Stipe. In between endless listings for websites devoted to REM lead singer, Michael Stipe, was a security company called Stipe Security. Dana clicked on the link and Franklin Stipe’s arrogant face filled the screen. “That’s Hasenfus!” she exclaimed.

Billy finally remembered the name of the man he’d met at the plantation. The one who was posing as an FBI agent at the train station. Franklin Stipe was listed as the founder and CEO of Stipe Security. Their logo was plastered all over the website—the two “Ss” that looked like vertical snakes—the same logo as the one on the chip implanted in Carolyn’s back.

It was all coming together now. Using some knowledge from his past life of Klein, specifically their endless quest to hide money, Billy figured Stipe Security’s real purpose was to act as a money laundromat, created by Operation Anesthesia to fund Operation Anesthesia. And whoever set up this company was the person in charge of the operation. Jordan and Stipe were just soldiers.

André appeared bemused by concepts like the Internet and BlackBerrys. “Wow, before I was captured the coolest thing we had was Atari,” he said with a sad shake of his head.

At that point, Billy truly understood André’s regret—his life had been stolen from him. So much had happened in those twenty years. He needed the past to matter. All the struggles had to somehow be worth it.

Billy knew all too well about having a life stolen away. But he also knew the danger of the rear-view mirror. There was nothing they could do about the past, but there was something they could do about the future. With that in mind, they headed toward Jordan Plantation.

Chapter 79

Red sky at night, sailor’s delight. Red sky in the morning, sailors take warning.

An old sailor’s proverb, and one Billy hoped wouldn’t be prophetic. They traveled in the small motorboat across Buggs Island Lake toward Jordan Plantation. The sky of the morning dawn was painted red, looking as if Carolyn had gotten loose with her crayons.

André captained the small vessel over the calm waters. Billy, Dana, and Carolyn acted as the deckhands. They had gone over the plan at the apartment in Raleigh, a plan André had been plotting for months. He transported a one-man arsenal of artillery in a backpack he had strapped to his back. Just like Carolyn, he could feel weight but not pain, and the backpack hunched him over.

They then drove to Occoneechee State Park. It was twenty-six hundred acres of wilderness and campgrounds beside the lake, named after the Indian tribe that once ruled the area. André had hidden a motorboat at the vast park earlier in the week, and with Billy and Dana’s help, they launched it from one of the parks three boat launches. Billy was feeling good about the decision to purchase the wetsuits.

On the journey across the lake, the apprehension could be cut with a knife. André broke the quiet tension by opening up about his pre-Operation Anesthesia childhood. Billy wondered if it was a ploy to take everyone’s mind off the monumental task at hand. Or maybe he was preparing his obituary. If someone on the outside knew the story of his life, then maybe he really existed and his life would matter.

He didn’t talk of the circumstances of being captured, or his time incarcerated at the camp, instead he chose to focus on his time growing up in Montreal, where he lived with his mother after his parents divorced. A strained marriage anyway, the stress of André’s mysterious childhood illness turned out to be the breaking point. He proudly mentioned that he was named after fellow Montreal native, André Bessette, the miracle-curing priest who began St. Joseph’s Oratory. As they got closer to the shores of the plantation, Billy knew they’d need their own miracle to pull this off.

Carolyn, as usual, was the least apprehensive. Logic said it was because her ignorance was bliss. But Billy knew she was just fearless by nature, unaffected by any circumstances, no matter how death defying. And now qualified to be National Transportation Secretary, she compared the boat ride to the other forms of transportation she’d recently experienced, which she listed, “An airplane, a helicopter to the children’s hospital, Martin’s cab, a motorcycle, a van,” she let out a theatrical sigh, “and too many trains to count.”

“Which did you like best?” André asked.

Her face scrunched in thought. “I’d haff to say the train.”

“Why is that?”

“No car seats in the train.”

He nodded knowingly. “It is never good to be confined in this world. Even if it alleviates dangers, or if the trip is bumpier without it. Freedom is oxygen to the soul.”

She giggled. “You talk funny.”

André smiled as he patted her on the head. But any good feeling was fleeting. It was now time to get down to business.

They anchored the boat about twenty feet offshore. André explained that Operation Anesthesia went to painstaking lengths to never call attention to themselves. And hundreds of boats like theirs passed this spot each day. So nobody would be shooting at them out on the lake. But once inside, all bets would be off. Nobody had ever penetrated Operation Anesthesia before.

André dove in first. A rope attached his backpack to his wetsuit, which floated behind him as he swam. As big of a struggle as walking was for him, he effortlessly glided through the water, his joints appearing whole once again. Dana was right behind him. She again surprised Billy, mentioning that she was a champion swimmer as a youth.

Billy carried the most precious cargo. Carolyn rode on his back, a swimming version of the piggyback rides he often gave her. And just like those, her hands eventually found there way around his neck and unintentionally choked him. But he was still able to get her safely to shore.

Hidden a few hundred yards inside the exterior brush was a fifteen-foot high, stone built wall that looked like an 18th-century fort. It was most likely created to keep out the Occoneechees, but the current security methods went far beyond the height of the wall, or the numerous private property-no trespassing signs planted nearby. According to André, the interior wall was lined with an invisible, electric fence that would fry you instantly. They could scale the outside, but once inside, there was no retreating back over the fence.

That was one reason the plan called for only André to go onto the plantation grounds. Another was that he felt the rest of them would complicate the process, stating that too many cooks in the kitchen spoil the broth, a favorite quote of his mother. The mission for Billy and his crew was to help André’s debilitated body over the fence, then return to the van and prepare for a getaway at the front entrance. André’s plan was to take advantage of the current vacuum of leadership to find and free his mother, along with Chuck and Beth. No easy task, and he would have to shoot his way out. But they knew this was their only shot.

André got right to the first order of business. He took out the rifle from his pack and screwed on a long snout—a silencer. He aimed at the hidden hunter’s perch, built into one of the thick trees that surrounded the wall. If André hadn’t told them it was there, they would never have noticed it.

Just before firing, André turned hesitant. Billy understood his dilemma. The guard in the tree was most likely a CIPA kid taken from his home in the middle of the night. They might have been friends or shared the bond of the battlefield. But then Billy saw a steadfastness appear over André’s face like a solar eclipse, blocking out any other emotion. He squeezed the trigger. The shot was drowned out by the squawking of the morning birds. The guard slumped over, dead.

They had to move quickly. Billy boosted André onto his shoulders, and then helped raise him to the top of the wall. The top was about two-feet wide, and unlike the interior wall, safe to the touch. Once he was in position on the wall, it was time for the part of the plan Billy anguished over all night. The part Dana had pleaded with them not to attempt. But there was no other way.

Chapter 80

A security camera sat on a tree just inside the fence. It was pointed at the exact spot on the plantation grounds where André would land after leaping off the top of the fence. He knew he would set off the silent alarm, regardless. But if the camera could be manually moved to the right, it would create a false negative, giving him enough time to disappear. It wouldn’t buy him a lot of time, but fractions of a second would determine success or failure. Life or death.

Problem was, none of the adults were small enough to maneuver across the top of the wall to a position where they could turn the camera. André knew the camera was bulletproof, so shooting it down was not an option. That left one possibility. Carolyn got on top of Dana’s shoulders, and Dana subsequently got on Billy’s shoulders. They raised Carolyn to the top of the wall and André pulled her up.

“Please be careful,” Dana muttered.

“Take it slow,” Billy whispered.

Carolyn looked at him like he was speaking Greek. Her fearlessness worried him most. But he was also concerned that her sneakers, still wet from the swim across the river, might cause her to slip.

She began taking baby steps along the top of the wall like she was walking the tightrope at the circus. She wasn’t graceful. No movements of a four-year-old ever were. She wobbled a couple times and Dana looked like she was physically holding back a scream. Carolyn needed to cover approximately ten to fifteen feet, although for Billy and Dana, it might as well have been a mile. It was excruciating to watch her, but she made it effortlessly, and then looked back, flashing a “proud of herself” grin.

“Now turn the camera that way.” Billy pointed in the direction he wanted her to move it, and then strongly added, “really slow.”

As Carolyn reached for the camera, Dana’s breathing pattern evaporated. André was ready to leap into enemy territory the moment the camera was turned. All their fates were resting on a four-year-old girl.

Then just as she was about to move the camera, a scared look overtook her face and she hopped backward. Billy saw what she saw. It was the Stipe Security logo on the camera, the two Ss.

“Snakes,” she said, frozen with fear.

“It’s okay, Carolyn, it’s just a picture,” Billy tried to calm her.

She looked ready to jump out of her skin. Snakes, naps, and dragons were Carolyn’s version of Kryptonite. Then, as if the camera were awoken from a slumber, it hissed a mechanical sound and auto-shifted positions. It startled Carolyn, causing her to lose her balance. “Whoa,” was the last thing Billy heard her say.

“Carolyn!” Dana screeched.

Carolyn disappeared from view, falling onto the plantation grounds. Billy instinctively scaled the wall, a feat Spiderman might marvel at, purely fueled by an adrenaline rush.

André immediately leapt down toward her, landing painlessly with a graceful somersault

Billy wasn’t surprised by what he witnessed from his vantage point on top of the wall. Without a hint of pain, Carolyn picked herself off the ground—bloodied, but not feeling it. But she was still scared and disorientated. She ran away from the fence, the unaltered camera tracking her every move.

Then Billy’s heart sank again. He could see the armed men in the distance, maybe twenty of them, and they were headed toward Carolyn. An army marching over the horizon, rumbling through the morning fog. It was like watching your child fall into the lion cage at the zoo. He’d never been so scared in his life.

“What’s happening, Billy?” Dana shrieked from the other side of the fence.

“Go to the boat, Dana!” he yelled back at her. Somebody had to be saved.

André ran after the girl. As smoothly as he swam, he struggled to run, each step was agonizing for Billy to watch. It was as if his head and joints weren’t on the same page. The backpack must’ve been weighing him down, because he shed it. But he was still holding his high-powered rifle. He didn’t seem fazed that there were twenty of them versus only one of him. He had the same fearlessness as Carolyn.

The sight of the soldiers sent Carolyn back in Billy’s direction. “Dragons are coming!” she yelled.

André tried to change direction also, but fell. He rose and took shots at the oncoming army, who were once his comrades. It bought him a few seconds to struggle to his feet and head toward Carolyn. When he saw where she was headed, he yelled, “No, Carolyn—don’t touch the fence!”

Billy wanted to jump in, but knew it would be suicide. If he died, then she died. It would be like jumping in a pool with an electric cord in the water. He was going to go anyway, but André threatened to shoot him if he did. The message was clear—the success of the mission trumped Billy’s suicidal loyalties.

Carolyn wasn’t listening. Billy knew the only things registering in her mind were “Dragons” and “Get to Billy.” He represented safety. But in this case, he was anything but.

“Carolyn—stop!” Billy yelled.

It didn’t compute. She ran faster, rapidly closing in on the wall. It would fry her instantly!
André dropped his gun and used the last burst of energy he had left in his crumbling body. As fast as the Anesthesia soldiers closed the gap on him, he closed it on Carolyn. His limbs were twisting in discombobulated angles as he ran.

“Billy...I’m coming...dragons!” Carolyn yelled as she ran toward her sure death.

Billy was paralyzed with fear. All he could do was watch and hope for a miracle. The cucumber was no longer cool; in fact, it was now sizzling on the barbecue.

Thankfully André didn’t freeze. He caught Carolyn from behind and hog-tied her to the ground, just inches from being deep-fried.

But they still faced a big problem. The soldiers had surrounded them, and the wall couldn’t be scaled. They were trapped. Custer faced better odds.

André looked at Carolyn, and then at Billy on top of the fifteen-foot high wall. The well-trained army was cutting off their path in the other direction. Billy could tell his mind was made up. Carolyn was better off dead than spending the rest of her life without freedom. Billy believed nobody had the right to be playing God with anybody’s life, but he was comfortable that if Carolyn had the facts, she would agree. As would Chuck and Beth.

André struggled to pick her up. He wasn’t tall enough to put her on his shoulders and have Billy pull her up. The only chance was to throw her.

André cradled her in his arms, swinging in a rocking motion, trying to build momentum. He would need all he could get. Carolyn was light, but André’s joints were weak, and fifteen feet was high. Billy braced to catch her. He hoped.

“Move and we’ll shoot,” yelled the leader of the army in a robotic voice.

They were out of time.

André released Carolyn and she flew toward the top of the wall. At first she looked like she might fly over Billy’s head, but then her momentum hit an immovable object: gravity. She hovered for a second, and then began to plummet like one of those birds Chuck shot during their hunting excursion. She wasn’t going to make it!

Billy reached out desperately to grab her. As he did, she hit the top corner of the wall and caught her ankle. Barely missing the frying pan!

But out of the frying pan and into the fire. Her body ricocheted back toward Billy, crashing into him, and they awkwardly tumbled off the wall. Billy wrapped his arms around her to protect her. She might not have felt the pain, but she could do major damage to her small body and internal organs.

They pounded to the ground with a thud.

On the safe side!

Billy had once dislocated his collarbone playing football, and instantly knew he did it again. He grimaced as he snapped it back into place. The pain was overwhelming—he certainly didn’t have CIPA. But he looked at Carolyn, who was still very much free and alive, and realized the pain was the best feeling he’d ever felt.

They ran to Dana, who was manning the getaway boat. As they sped away over the morning water, Billy kept looking back at the wall. A wall that was ironically protected by those it held captive. It kept getting smaller. He kept hoping for André to come barreling over it, but he knew he wouldn’t. André had sacrificed himself for Carolyn.

Then Billy was hit by another grim truth. What just took place might have been there last chance to save Chuck and Beth. And now with Jordan out of the way, and the plantation security breached, there was a good chance that Operation Anesthesia would, like Dracula, retreat to the darkness, only to be seen again when they thirsted for blood.

Billy took one last look at the fence, hoping for a miracle.

None came.

Chapter 81

Beth awoke Monday morning in mid-nightmare. So she did what she always did when having a bad dream—she wrapped her arms around Chuck’s broad, bare chest and pulled herself as close to him as possible. In her dream, Carolyn was being chased by the trainers, who were shooting at her as she ran toward Billy. It wasn’t much different from her other dreams since she’d arrived, but for some reason this one felt more real.

She knew Chuck wasn’t having any dreams at all, since he’d barely slept since arriving. He was fighting them with all his might, but agreed to stay with Beth the last few nights. She needed him, and that overruled everything for him, even if it meant giving in to what the trainers wanted. And she appreciated it more than ever. The hanging of Miss Rose had really shaken her up.

While Chuck was fighting the quicksand, Beth took up the Miss Rose strategy of cooperation. As Mrs. B used to say, it’s impossible to spell convert without con. She was trying to somehow communicate her plan to Chuck, needing him to join her in this strategy. But she wasn’t getting through to him, and he was becoming increasingly annoyed with her compliance.

But it wasn’t all bad news. As Miss Rose’s eyes were getting ready to roll back into her head, and her breaths became shallow, Jordan signaled his men to cut her down. Then he made an announcement about his plantation not believing in violence, but what they witnessed was an example of what could happen if someone in the future broke the golden rule.

Beth was thrilled that Miss Rose was still alive and kicking—literally—taking out her displeasure on Jordan’s men with her foot, after she was cut down. But Beth had to keep her distance—Miss Rose now wore the Scarlet Letter within the community. And if Beth was going to play the part of a convert, then she couldn’t be connected to her in any way.

But there was an even more lasting memory etched in her mind from the hanging ceremony. It was that woman. Beth spent most of Sunday wandering the grounds, hoping for a chance meeting. Was it an illusion? Were they slipping mind-altering drugs in the food that caused hallucinations? Could that have really been her?

Chuck pulled Beth close and smiled at her.

“Good morning,” she said, gripping him tightly.

“Any day that these bastards don’t get Carolyn is a good day.”

Beth said nothing, still unable to shake the feeling that Carolyn was present.

She could tell that Chuck couldn’t take it anymore. He wouldn’t let her lose her will to fight, or become one of the soulless ghosts wandering the grounds. “I know they’re listening—I don’t give a shit,” he shot angrily.

“That’s not it, Chuck.”

“Then what is it?”

“Maybe this place would be good for her.”

“Excuse me, eh?”

“Let’s face it, we can’t give her what she needs. We had to mooch off Dana just to get her a bike for her birthday. It’s safe here—no crime, no worries, and there are a lot of other children just like her. And on top of that, the world’s best CIPA doctor is located right here on the premises.”

“I can’t believe you would say such a thing.”

“She’s better off here than on a wild goose chase with that violent wife-beater.”

“Billy is not like that and you know it.”

“The photos don’t lie.”

“Beth…”

“All I’m saying is have an open mind. Change is always hard, but maybe in this case it’s for the best.”

“Have they threatened you?”

“I’m just a pragmatic mother who wants the best for her daughter.”

She could tell she just pushed Chuck over the ledge. He stood up on the bed, all six-foot-six of him, and began yelling at the spot he thought cameras might be hidden. “You will never get Carolyn! She’s too smart for you!”

“No…please,” Beth pleaded.

He kneeled back down on the bed and held Beth steady by both her shoulders. “Listen to me, Beth. I love you—you are my everything. That stuff about me and Carolyn being your angels is bullshit. You’re our angel.”

Beth broke down. She couldn’t act anymore. Miss Rose did it for twenty years—she lasted a couple days. “I miss her so much!”

“I do too,” Chuck said.

“What are we going to do?”

“For starters, yell at them. It’ll make you feel better.”

He helped her to a standing position on the bed, and encouraged her to scream at the walls. “I know you’re listening. You’ll never catch her,” Beth screamed.

Chuck stood with her on the bed and wrapped his arms around her. “I will do whatever it takes to keep her safe. But I need you—I can’t do it alone.”

She pulled him as close as humanly possible. “I love you so much.”

The moment was intense. And for some reason it felt to Beth like they were saying their goodbyes.

An ear-splitting alarm cut short their embrace. Within seconds, a couple of camouflage dressed trainers burst into their room.

Chuck was immediately handcuffed, which perplexed Beth, since he’d done much worse since his arrival. She ran directly at the man who was cuffing her husband and began hitting and slapping him. The guard easily overpowered her, shoving her to the ground. But it was still worth it.

The alarm kept booming, making it near impossible to hear or think. The trainer shouted at the top of his lungs, “There has been a security breach—an intruder has tried to break in—we are taking you in for your own protection.”

Beth again felt Carolyn’s presence. Run, Carolyn, Run!

Chuck was led in one direction, Beth in another. They traded one last look that said they could be physically separated, but not the bond between them.

Beth was brought a short distance down the hallway to a thick, vault-like door she had wondered about. The trainer punched in an electronic code and the door opened. Beth was then led inside a huge concrete room the trainer referred to as the “security room.”

The room was as crowded as a New York subway car at rush hour. Beth viewed her fellow inmates, and for the first time many of them looked human to her. Most looked scared and out of sorts. She got the feeling there weren’t a lot of security breaches at the plantation. This was new territory.

Beth suddenly felt empathy for them. They were living a normal life just like her, and then one day learned their child had a strange disease. And although they had struggles ahead, the prognosis provided relief. Then before they could even process their new reality, they ended up enslaved in Creepyville. Beth thought back to just over a week ago when she sat with Chuck, Billy, and Carolyn on movie night. It might as well have been two lifetimes ago.

The heavy door slammed shut, locking them in. It was hard to get air. Beth noted that there was only a lone vent in the upper right hand corner. The room was painted pink, in what she thought was a pathetic attempt to psychologically disarm their captors.

After fifteen excruciating minutes, the pounding of the alarm mercifully stopped. Beth’s senses slowly came back, allowing her to focus on her surroundings, and that’s when she saw the woman. She had aged, and not like a fine wine. Her face was lined with the deep wrinkles of despair and she wore twenty years of baggage under her eyes. But she had a different look than the other contented zombies who’d lost their will. It was the same look of determination Beth often saw in the mirror, or in Carolyn’s eyes.

The woman also saw her. And even though Beth was only four years old the last time they saw each other, she recognized her. They moved toward each other as if in a trance. You never forget your mother, no matter how young you were, or how hard you try to block her out of your life because it is too painful to think about her not being there.

“Mom? It’s me—Beth.”

“Beth,” she said with amazement, but then her joyful look dissipated to defeat. “After all these years, they finally found you.”

Beth stumbled on her words. “How…but…I don’t understand.”

They stood motionless, too stunned to even hug. Her mother finally reached out and took Beth by the hand, walking her to the corner of the room. “Is Mrs. B okay? She was the only one I trusted to leave you with.”

Beth was shocked by her mother’s statement, but quickly put it together—she wasn’t abandoned! “She took great care of me, but passed away when I was just eight.”

Her mother seemed to be calculating the many years since Beth was eight. The answer wouldn’t be pretty, nor would the tale that followed. The story began with her brother Nathan’s genetic disorder, which was diagnosed by a doctor in New York named Naqui. Her mother thought they were after Nathan to use him as a guinea pig for medical research and planned to silence the rest of the family. “I had no idea it was something like this,” she said with a sad shake of the head.

Then she gave blow-by-blow details of that Christmas Day, almost twenty-one years ago. How she conspired with Mrs. B to hide and raise Beth as her own, recalling the desperate call she made to her from the train station that Christmas after leaving the doctor’s office, as she felt Operation Anesthesia closing in around them. Mrs. B vowed to never divulge the story to anyone, ever. She didn’t even discuss it with her husband, agreeing to protect Beth at any cost.

Then it all started coming back to Beth. The memories she had lodged so deep in her subconscious were now journeying into the light. She remembered her mother at the train station, with tears in her eyes, telling Beth that she was going to live with Mrs. B, the woman she worked with at school. But she also remembered her mother’s warning, “Elizabeth, you can never-ever tell anyone that the train is bringing you to Mrs. B, do you understand?” She only called her Elizabeth when she meant business.

But Beth did tell somebody—that nice man named Joe on the train—and now she remembered how guilty she felt, like she’d let her mother down. So from that point on she hid the information of that day where nobody could ever find it, including herself.

It was like a bird swooped down and swept the giant burden off Beth’s shoulders. Feeling suddenly free, she moved to the next topic of the many queued up in her mind, “Is Nathan here?”

Her mother’s expression mixed pride and sadness. “He died years ago in battle. He always knew you were out there, Beth, and he thought what he was doing might contribute to keeping you safe, along with those like his friend Richard Kiely. Operation Anesthesia was the first group that ever accepted him and made him feel like he was special. Not like those children back in Schenectady who treated him like a freak.”

Beth was distressed—did they brainwash her too? She wanted her mother to be strong like Miss Rose. “So you are saying you agree with what they do here?”

“Not at all. Your brother died a hero, even if he was representing an institution that was anything but heroic. He didn’t fight for them—he fought for you.”

There was still one person she hadn’t mentioned. “What about Dad?”

“He was here with me. He died shortly after Nathan was killed. They said it was a heart attack, but I think he lost the will to live after losing you and Nathan. You two meant so much to him.” She teared up, “I miss him so much. He was such a good man.”

Beth hugged her mother, and it felt right. Like riding a bike. When they unlocked the embrace, she asked, “The disease Nathan had, it was CIPA wasn’t it?”

Her mother looked surprised. “How did you know that?”

“You have a granddaughter named Carolyn. She also has CIPA. I was a carrier. That’s why my husband and I were captured.”

Her mother’s face filled with sadness. Beth knew what triggered it: the mention of her husband—she had missed her daughter’s wedding. It stood as the symbol of missing out on every milestone in her life.

Then Beth remembered something. Her mother’s name was Carol Ann. All these years she could never remember it. Even when the police grilled her, or through extensive hypnosis. What is your mother’s name—I don’t know! But now she knew she subliminally named Carolyn after her.

“Is she here…Carolyn?” her mother asked.

“Not yet.”

“Good—if she is anything like you, it will take them a long time.”

They continued to talk and hug. Carol Ann eventually told Beth, as gently as one could, that she had nine brothers and sisters on the plantation. Beth didn’t know what to do with that one.

Finally Carol Ann broke down with guilt and said, “I failed you.”

Beth wouldn’t hear of such a thing. But she was a mother, so she understood where such a feeling would come from. “You did everything you could. You gave me life and then sacrificed your own life to save mine.”

And Beth was sure she would do the same for Carolyn.

Chapter 82

Looking to regroup, they shed the wetsuits and headed back to André’s apartment in Raleigh. André had left them the keys to both the van and the apartment. But they found the apartment decorated with yellow police tape. It looked like an early Halloween prank gone awry.

As a hunted fugitive, Billy didn’t think police lights were the type of light they should be running toward. So he turned the van around and began driving the other direction. He turned the radio to an all-news station, trying to get an update.

A suspect had been identified in the case of the murder of Dr. Samuel Jordan. His name was Tracey Jarvis. It was reported that the police had his apartment surrounded in Raleigh and were currently searching it. Dana checked the glove compartment, and sure enough, she found the fake identification André used. He was Tracey Jarvis.

According to the report, the motive was still unclear, but Jarvis’ van had been spotted by a couple of Duke students who were hiking in the Duke Research Forest shortly before the murder. The hikers grew suspicious of the supposed military man begging for change when he couldn’t answer simple questions about his military background. They called the authorities and reported the license plate number of his van, thinking he might be running a scam. “But it turned out to be much more than that,” the radio announcer eerily said.

“Now in national news, there have been new findings in the case of the kidnapped child in New York,” the news continued to pile on.

One of the findings was a Billy Harper sighting in Montreal, just days after the Lake George fire. He was spotted with the girl on a mall security camera. Another at a train station in Schenectady, where he arrived the night prior to the school shooting. The motorcycle he used during the shooting at Elmer Avenue Elementary was recovered at that same train station, and the new theory was that he had returned to Montreal by train. Still no comment from Carolyn’s parents in “seclusion.”

The radio report perked up Carolyn, who was enjoying her freedom in the back of the van without the dreaded car seat. “Hey—how’d the radio guy know our names?”

“Everybody knows a princess’s name,” Dana thought quickly.

Carolyn thought about it and seemed to like the idea.

Billy drove as fast as he could without attracting attention. His destination was the parking area outside of the Duke Medical School, where they’d left their vehicle the day before during their Jordan stakeout. He was hoping the Camaro would still be there. But it wasn’t. Probably towed.

But regardless, they couldn’t risk being spotted in the incriminating white van. They ditched it and speed-walked through the Duke campus. Carolyn negotiated for another round of face painting, but the bruises from her wall fall had already colored her face. She whined when she didn’t get her way. Whining was usually a clear sign she was hungry. Billy’s stomach was also growling, so they walked off the campus to look for a place they could both eat and melt into the background.

Then Carolyn suddenly pointed and said, “Hey—that’s where my Dad works.”

Billy was first confused, but then realized what she meant. In front of them was a Durazzo’s restaurant with a Grand Opening banner draped over it. The place looked practically empty this morning, giving Billy a sudden craving for Mexican food.

After they were seated, Dana took Carolyn to the ladies room. She returned ten minutes later with what looked like a different little girl. Dana had used her skilled makeup artistry to cover up Carolyn’s numerous cuts and bruises. She also reported that Carolyn’s gunshot wound looked as good as a gunshot wound could look. Carolyn had one of her fevers, but Dana got her to take her medicine. Actually, she bribed her to take it in exchange for an enchilada. The breakfast of champions.

They took a seat in a booth and stared with exhaustion at plastic menus. Billy’s attention was diverted to another “Breaking News Alert” playing out on a mounted television. The van had already been spotted on the Duke campus. It was less than twenty minutes since they ditched it! Things were moving too fast.

Billy figured dashing out of the restaurant would lead to unwanted attention, so they stayed and ordered. But by the time their morning enchiladas arrived, his resolve had hit rock bottom. The police might not have been onto them yet, but for all he knew, Operation Anesthesia could be in the next booth. Being spotted during the failed invasion was like sending them an engraved invitation to announce they were in the area.

Then a recognizable voice reverberated throughout the restaurant, calling out his name.

Billy instinctively looked toward the voice. When he saw who it was, he felt sick.

Chapter 83

The voice came from a woman wearing a form-fitting, fluorescent-orange Durazzo’s T-shirt and a short skirt that would’ve made Paris Hilton blush.

“She’s shiny,” Carolyn observed.

The few people in the place turned and looked. Billy couldn’t figure out if they were looking at them because they heard the name of a notorious fugitive, or that people always turn and look at the stunning creature. He assumed the latter.

He almost laughed at how stupid his luck had become. It was like he beat the odds to win the lottery, but later found out it was the lottery of stoning that Shirley Jackson wrote of in her classic short story. They had outrun the authorities, allegedly convinced the FBI they were heading for Canada, and even had outmaneuvered the shadowy Operation Anesthesia for days. But he couldn’t outrun Kaylee Scroggins.

“I’ve seen you on the news, Billy. Not only are you as good looking as George Clooney, but now you’re more famous than him,” she exulted in her typical flirtatious tone, upon arriving at their table. Dana used the power of flirtation for good, but to Kaylee it was a tool to push her self-absorbed agenda.

He begged for quiet with his eyes, but she didn’t seem to grasp the concept. “Did you come to kidnap me, Billy?” she said with a sheepish grin.

“We just happened to be in the neighborhood.”

“I didn’t say it like it was a bad thing,” she quipped, and then flashed Dana a competition glare. “And you are?”

“I’m the only woman here wearing clothes,” Dana shot back. “I think the better question is, who are you?”

“I’m the best Billy ever had.”

The two glared at each other, only to be broken up by Carolyn joining the introductions. “I’m Carolyn Whitcomb, but you can call me princess.”

“I’m going to be sick,” Billy mumbled to himself. On another day in another life, Billy’s ego might have taken a bow. But today he was just getting a migraine.

The more Billy thought about it, the more he realized Kaylee’s presence wasn’t just dumb luck. Kaylee attended Duke, and at last check, was quasi-dating Sal Durazzo. It made perfect sense that she was here. What didn’t make sense—and could probably use some explanation—was why were they here? Which gave him an idea. He grabbed Kaylee by the arm and huffed, “We gotta talk.”

“I don’t know if talking is our strong point, but I’m game.”

“Alone.”

“Alone is definitely one of our strong points.”

She led him to an empty lounge by the bar. Once alone, her DNA took over, and she turned into the aggressor. She hopped up on the bar, wrapped her tanned legs around him, and pulled him as close as possible with her legs. “So Billy, are you a member of the Chain Gang Club?”

“If the police catch me I will be.”

“Not that chain gang. The Chain Gang Club is like the Mile High Club, but instead of doing it in airplanes, you do it in cheesy chain restaurants.”

“I once made out with my high school girlfriend in a Bennigan’s.”

“Doesn’t count.”

“Says who?”

She smiled wickedly. “I’m the club president. I have the final veto power. Now for your initiation.”

He put up a stop sign. “Listen, I’m in a tight spot right now.”

“If you play your cards right, you’ll be in an even tighter spot.”

“The police are after us.”

She actually gleamed. “I know.”

Billy suddenly understood his advantage. He knew women like Kaylee Scroggins. In fact, he married one. She wasn’t truly hot for him. She was hot for the guy who would piss off her father. And in the pantheon of bad boys, Billy Harper—notorious kidnapper on the run—just moved to the top.

His guess was that Kaylee hadn’t thought for two seconds about their tryst, which was probably just a combination of boredom and a few too many drinks for her. But ever since Billy hit the national news for all the wrong reasons, he was suddenly back on her radar. She would eventually dump him to marry a senator, but that was a whole ’nother story for a different day. Today’s story was all about survival, and using everything he could to ensure it.

He moved in and kissed her. This time his tongue was the serpent. “I need you to do something for me,” he said firmly, after releasing her lips. Being the aggressor felt very liberating.

“Anything,” she purred with a sultry gleam in her eye.

He kissed her again, long, and then came up for air. “I don’t have time right now, the cops are on my tail.”

He could feel her quiver, turned on by his law-breaking, and probably contemplating some innuendo-filled repartee about her own tail.

“I need your car. And I need you to keep your mouth shut about me coming to see you,” he coldly stated.

Without a second thought, she reached into the pocket of her micro-mini, which somehow could fit a pair of keys. She tossed them to him. “It’s the Mercedes out back. Can’t miss it—the license plate says Kaylee.”

He kissed her again, and then began to walk away without even a thank you.

“Hey Clyde,” she shouted to him, breathlessly.

He turned back to her. “Yeah?”

“Do you need a Bonnie?”

He glanced into the main room of the restaurant where Dana was patiently tying Carolyn’s shoe. He smiled. “No, I got all the Bonnies I can handle right now.”

Chapter 84

Billy returned to the table with keys to Kaylee Scroggins’ Mercedes, receiving a dirty look from Dana. She turned to Carolyn and said, “Do you want to hear a joke?”

Carolyn never met a joke she didn’t like and energetically agreed.

“How do you get Kaylee into bed?”

Carolyn shrugged. “I don’t know, is it her nap time?’

“No, all you have to do is ask her.”

Carolyn laughed dramatically, even though she had no idea what she was laughing at.

“Real appropriate,” Billy chastised.

But he had bigger battles to wage. The good news was that they still hadn’t been connected to Tracey Jarvis and the Jordan murder, but they needed to get out of here before that changed. Which was inevitable once somebody put together that the “kidnapped” Carolyn Whitcomb had been Jordan’s patient. But where would they go?

Billy looked up at the mounted TV like he was searching for a higher power. The news program was showing clips from the morning session of the Senate hearings on the Iran hostage debacle, including some nasty exchanges between Billy’s good friend, Senator LaRoche, and Kerry Rutherford, who was in charge of US intelligence. And with that one small glance, he had found his higher power.

And just as importantly, they now had a vehicle to get to this higher power. The bad news was that in their continuing effort to remain low profile, Kaylee’s hot pink Mercedes was anything but. Although Carolyn did seem impressed, “Whoa—that’s a real princess car!”

Billy explained his plan to Dana during their four-hour trip to D.C. Dana was a little chippy following Billy’s brief rendezvous with Kaylee, and grilled him like a district attorney, poking many obvious holes in his plan. Some of it was out of spite, but most of her points were legit. And by the time the regal rotunda of the Capital was staring them in the eye, Dana had a better plan. She instructed him to drive past D.C. and into Maryland, where they landed before a large Victorian home in a swanky looking suburb. It was the home of her old Washington Post boyfriend, Sam Spiegel.

Dana got on the phone. “Hey Sam—it’s Dana Boulanger,” she said in her most flirtatious voice. After listening for a moment, she added, “I’m at your house right now. I thought about your offer in New York, and it must be your lucky day because I reconsidered.”

Listening pause.

“Oh please, Sam, the Senate has hearings every time the wind changes direction. This is a last shot opportunity for you.”

Another listening pause.

“Your wife didn’t seem to matter when you were in New York.”

Brief pause.

“Then you better hurry up before she gets back. I promise to be a good girl this time and not break the bed like we did in my apartment that time.”

She not-so-subtly glanced at Billy. He got the message—two can play this game.

She hung up, smiling mischievously. “He’s on his way. He’s covering the Senate hearings, but to be fair, who would you rather spend an afternoon with, me, or some crotchety old senators?”

“You broke a bed?” he couldn’t resist asking.

She smiled at his obvious jealousy.

“Did you get in trouble when you broke your bed?” Carolyn asked.

Dana’s face reddened; they’d forgotten she was there.

“The whole relationship was regrettable, bed and all,” Dana recovered.

“What’s regret-ta-bull?”

“When we wish we didn’t make some of the decisions we made, we call it regret.”

“Like when I did the Dracula joke?”

“Exactly.”

Her face drooped. “I regret having Congenital Insensitivity to Pain with Anhidrosis. Because it makes us go to doctors, and leave my room and my mommy and daddy, and drive around in trains and cars all day.”

Dana’s eyes liquefied, filling with concern. “You should never say that. You are a special little girl!”

“And it’s not so bad, you got to ride on a motorcycle and in a pink princess car,” Billy said. He and Dana then continued trading “and got to’s.”

“And got to ride on a choo-choo train.”

“And got to paint your face and go le shopping.”

“And got to go swimming.”

“And how many little girls get to get shot?”

Dana flashed Billy a dirty look for the last comment. “And besides, you can’t regret something you can’t control. We can only regret the decisions we make,” Dana explained with the patience of a kindergarten teacher.

Carolyn soaked in the encouragement. Billy wondered if she’d been holding in a feeling of guilt this whole trip, or maybe it was just the last thing that flew into her mind and would just as quickly evaporate. It was hard to tell with a four-year-old.

A smile emerged from her silence. “Then I guess I haff nothing else I regret.”

An hour later, Sam Spiegel appeared out his Mercedes, colored a more conservative silver. His suit was expensive and his surfer-blond hair flopped as he walked with a swagger that was closer to cocky than confident. When the man and child with Dana came into focus, his face dropped. He was a street-smart reporter and recognized a setup when he saw one.

“Hello, Sam,” Dana said.

“What the hell is this?” he demanded.

“I thought I came over so we could dredge up the past while your wife is away.”

He was livid. “You brought a kidnapper slash wife-beater to my house? What are you thinking, Dana? I know you’re about as sharp as a plastic butter knife, but…”

Dana cut him off. “We’re staying the night.”

“Are you crazy? My wife...”

“She won’t have to worry her pretty little socialite head. The kidnapper and I are going to sleep on the couch. If you haven’t figured it out, I’m not really interested in being in your bed.”

“You need to go before I call the police.”

Dana then preyed on his most primal of instincts. Even more powerful than the one that just pulled him away from the Senate hearings.

“I have a feeling, Sam, that you will trade your wife’s anger for the story of a lifetime.”

Chapter 85

Billy hid behind his menu at the Park Promenade restaurant, located in the Hyatt Regency Hotel on Capital Hill. He eventually worked up the nerve to take a peek out at his past.

The pretentious-looking woman sat by herself at the far end of the dining area. Her long blonde locks were tied up in a conservative bun. From her sitting position, she appeared to be wearing one of those Hillary-esque pantsuits. She looked, for the most part, as he expected. But he did take some solace in her weight gain. The mind works in strange ways, he thought.

Carolyn, dressed like it was Easter Sunday, sans bonnet, stopped slurping on the straw of her empty lemonade and asked, “Who’s that lady you keep staring at?”

He guessed he wasn’t as smooth as he thought. “An old friend.”

“How come you don’t look happy to see an old friend?”

“What?”

“If someone’s your friend, you should haff a happy face when you see them.”

“I don’t?”

“You need to turn your frown upside down.”

“How’s this?” he said and made a goofy face.

She giggled, closed her eyes, and then distorted her face. “How’s this?”

“Not as good as this,” he said, stretching the corners of his mouth horizontally toward his ears and sticking out his tongue.

Carolyn giggled. “You’re silly!”

A few moments later, another woman entered the busy dining area. She walked directly to the table of the blonde woman in the blue suit. This woman had dark hair and her pink power-suit with skirt bottom had more of a Jackie Kennedy flair to it than the Hillary-conservative. But they both were expensive.

Carolyn pointed. “Hey—why is Aunt Dana sitting with your old friend?”

Billy gave her the shoosh hand. It was a good question, but he didn’t have the time at the moment to explain it to a four-year-old. The simple answer was that thirty seven states have laws that cap campaign contributions. Pennsylvania was not one of them.

After arriving at Sam Spiegel’s house yesterday afternoon, Dana made a call to the offices of Pennsylvania Senator Oliver LaRoche. She told them a story that went something like...

A few years back she was told by her doctors, late in a pregnancy, that her life was in danger. They strongly advised a late-term abortion, which she was eventually talked into. But the night before, God talked to her and told her to keep her baby, even it if meant giving up her own life. She did just that, against doctor’s orders, and thankfully mother and daughter were both now very much alive and thriving.

The story was fiction. But for Senator Oliver LaRoche, a staunch supporter of the pro-life movement, at least until the pro-choice people start paying him more, it was a photo-op he couldn’t refuse. By falsely involving God in the story, they knew they were in direct violation of the Seventh Commandment, but hoped they would be cut some slack since they were trying to save the Healing Angel of Pain.

And if the story didn’t do the trick, Dana offered to pledge $150,000 to his campaign. The only catch was that she must deliver it in person to LaRoche on Tuesday, which was the anniversary of the “symbolic” day that God talked to her. She had already traveled to D.C. on the hope she could meet him.

Billy knew they would do a background check on Dana to make sure she wasn’t a kook, or more importantly, didn’t have the money. What they likely found was that Dana Boulanger was the owner of a small literary agency, and more importantly, a large trust fund. She was the daughter of well known political lawyer Tom Boulanger, and the granddaughter of the very wealthy John Boulanger, who had a history of giving large sums of money to political campaigns of those sympathetic to his personal needs. Dana was a chip off the old-money block.

They called her back an hour later with the news that Senator LaRoche could not leave the Iran hostage hearings he chaired on such short notice. When Dana informed them it was a deal-breaker, they made a counter offer in which the senator’s wife, Kelly Klein-LaRoche, would meet Dana on Tuesday in her husband’s place, at the restaurant of Dana’s choice. Dana agreed. With more time at their disposal, they could have found the connection between Dana and the ex-husband of the senator’s wife—Billy Harper—but Billy bet the six-figure donation would cloud their minds, and he was right.

Billy watched Dana and Kelly chitchat for fifteen minutes or so. He continued to grip the weapon in his hand. It wasn’t a gun—he couldn’t shoot straight anyway. It was an article written by Sam Spiegel for the front page of tomorrow’s Washington Post. They pulled an all-nighter to complete it, and Billy was confident it would help get him what he needed. Sam had put together most of it from his research, but he needed a firsthand witness like Billy to tie it all together, filling in all the missing details. The details LaRoche thought were buried forever.

The transfer of the money envelope from Dana to Kelly was the signal. The plan called for Dana to notify Kelly that her husband and their miracle daughter were present, but just too shy to meet Senator LaRoche’s esteemed wife. Kelly would then predictably do her political due diligence and invite them over, so she could shower them with fake smiles and exploit the situation to the fullest. Billy was going to make her work hard for that hundred and fifty grand.

On Dana’s wave, Billy stood and buttoned the jacket of the Armani suit he borrowed from Sam Spiegel, who had a similar size and build. He grabbed Carolyn’s hand and moved toward their table. He held the threatening article in his hand like a gun. This time he was going to pull the trigger.

Chapter 86

As he approached the table, Billy noticed Kelly’s pageant smile rip away like a Halloween mask. She then morphed into the “Cold Klein” character he’d gotten to know so well during their last years of marriage. Klein’s Beer once had an advertising campaign featuring the slogan, nothing beats the heat like a cold Klein. As a writer, he knew irony when he saw it.

“What do you want with me?” she greeted him, her face twitching with disgust.

“I want very little to do with you, now or ever.”

“Then why did you have your girlfriend set me up? Or should I say your accomplice—that’s what you felons call it, correct?”

“I want a meeting with your husband.”

“If you haven’t heard, he’s running the Senate hearings today. Senators don’t have all day to fool around,” her gaze purposely wandered to Carolyn, “like kidnappers do.”

Those were fighting words to Carolyn, or any kid. “Whoa—I just took a nap. This kid doesn’t need any napping!”

Kelly drowned out her plea by spastically calling for the maître d’.

“Call Oliver now and set up a meeting at your house for this afternoon,” Billy demanded.

“I can’t do that. And why would I?”

As he looked at her, Billy had no philosophical thoughts of love and love lost. The reunion was nothing like that sappy Dan Fogelberg song they always play on the radio around Christmas time about the old lovers meeting in the grocery store. He no longer loved her, but two emotions shot through him. One was anger for what she had taken from him. The other was his survival instinct—Kelly might be the last link to save Carolyn.

He took out the stapled printout of what would be tomorrow’s front-page headline. “Sam Spiegel of the Post has been working on the story of what really happened that night and the ugly events that led up to it. Having been there, I was able to fill in a few blanks for him.”

Kelly made another desperate appeal for the maître d’. He was moving toward them so fast he must’ve thought he was the one getting the hundred and fifty grand. Another day, another uppity senator’s wife. In this case it was the wife of the Majority Leader.

“You mean the one where you broke into the home I was using to hide from my abusive husband, threatening to shoot people, and then we cut you the deal of the lifetime by dropping the charges? Which by the way was Oliver’s idea, I wanted you to rot in jail. I also remember the part of the deal that clearly stated that you must stay at least five hundred feet from me at all times. Not a real smart move coming here in front of a slew of witnesses. But then again, smart moves never really were your thing.”

It was a “deal of a lifetime” he never agreed to. He would never have in a million years. It was imposed by those too powerful to fight back against. But now he was going to make a counter offer.

“The article has a different view of the events, and any deal that followed.”

“You’re going to jail.”

“Go ahead, but if Sam doesn’t get my phone call to stop the article, this will hit the front page of tomorrow’s Post.”

She angrily skimmed the article. “Who is going to believe a suspected kidnapper?”

“I don’t know,” Billy replied with a sly grin. “But the article makes for good reading. I particularly like the part about how you and Mr. Family Values were having an affair while his wife took her last breaths. And moved in together, pretending he was protecting you from me.”

“We’ll sue for libel and then Oliver will own the Washington Post.”

“But the damage will already be done. And to win a libel suit you’d have to prove it wasn’t true, and I think we both know…”

The mustached maître d’ arrived, cutting him off. “Is this man bothering you, Mrs. LaRoche?”

She took another glance at the article. It hadn’t changed.

“The funny thing,” Billy noted, “is this restaurant is only two miles from Pennsylvania Avenue, yet one piece of paper can make sure there will only be one Pennsylvania where you and the Senator will be residing. Back to your home state in shame.”

She glanced at the paper one last time, and then up at the maître d’. Kleins weren’t used to being the ones getting bullied. “I was just wondered if you could bring my friend and the young lady a chair.”

The maître d’ momentarily left, before returning with chairs for Billy and Carolyn. When he left to wait on another important-looking woman in a power-suit, Kelly began with indignation, “What do you want, money?”

“I told you, I want to meet with Oliver this afternoon.”

“That’s impossible. And besides, the children will be home from school shortly.”

She was a Klein, which meant she didn’t play fair. The comment knocked the wind out of him, but he regained his breath and pushed on. “Make it happen or the article prints.”

She looked him straight in the eye. It was the look that used to make his knees buckle, but he didn’t even flinch.

“I knew you’d be back,” she said with a look of disgust.

“Sorry I couldn’t be more accommodating to your new life.”

“Do you know how much I despise you?”

“I wasn’t the one who cheated and left.”

“I guess we can never fully remove the mistakes of our past. They always come back to haunt us. And that’s what you are, Billy, a mistake from my past, like a bad drug habit. You stole so many years from me, and now you’re here to try to steal my future.”

“I’m only interested in what you stole from me,” he said, his voice choking back his words. “Now stop stalling, or the article prints.”

Without much of a choice, she stood to leave. When she did, Billy’s eyes bugged out of his head.

“Your tummy is big,” Carolyn blurted.

Kelly smiled at her. Billy had seen that smile before.

“That’s because I’m going to have a baby.”

Billy’s heart panged for the first time since seeing Kelly again. And it wasn’t because the past love of his life was having somebody else’s baby. It was the look she had flashed Carolyn. It reminded him of what Kelly Klein stole from him.

“There’s a baby inside your tummy?” Carolyn asked curiously.

“Not for long, I’m due any day now.”

“Did you eat it?”

She chuckled lightly. “No, God put the baby inside of me.”

“It looks like God made a mistake and put a grownup in there!”

The limo drove them the short distance to the LaRoche’s Washington row house, where they lived while the Senate was in session. It was in the Stanton Park neighborhood of Capital Hill, halfway between Maryland Ave NE and Massachusetts Ave NE. It was only a short walk to the US Capital, the Supreme Court, and Senate Office buildings.

It was also typical Oliver LaRoche. The area was once a dilapidated haven for crime, but had seen an upsurge in the last ten years and now was filled with tree-lined streets and couples walking their dogs. It was luxurious and priced in the millions, but still gave the impression he was living among “the common people.” If you play on both teams you can never lose the game.

Billy was quiet on the trip over. Dana tried to comfort him. She knew the truth, so she understood what this moment meant to him.

They entered a museum-like living room with high vaulted ceilings. Numerous photos hung on the walls and filled the mantle of the fireplace. He wasn’t surprised that none were of him, but many of them, especially the ones from recent family trips, taunted him. He fought himself not to look. His head felt like it was leaking oxygen and needed to sit down.

Twenty minutes after they arrived, the pitter-pattering sounds of children’s feet could be heard coming into the house. As they moved closer, the energetic chatter of seven-year-old twins echoed the room. Billy’s knees buckled.

“Anna…Maddie…we’re in here,” Kelly robotically yelled to them like she had a gun to her head. For all intents and purposes, she did.

The pitter-patter grew closer. Then the two girls appeared in the large doorframe of the living room and their chatter stopped. They froze, their eyes growing to the size of pie tins.

Their blonde hair, a genetic trait from their mother, was tied in bows. They wore school uniforms and carried lunchboxes. They had grown a lot since Billy last saw them, and he immediately noticed so many subtle changes he might have overlooked without so much time apart.

Billy tried to talk, but he couldn’t. He always knew he would see them again, but never prepared the words he’d say. It was like death, everybody knows it will eventually come, but it’s too overwhelming of a concept to think about. He was paralyzed.

It was surreal. Nobody could speak…except Carolyn.

“Hey Billy—look—it’s Peanut Butter and Jelly!”

Chapter 87

Maddie, aka Jelly, was the first to react. It had always been her M.O. “Daddy!” she exclaimed and ran to Billy.

Anna’s nickname of Peanut Butter always fit. Jelly was the colorful flavor, but peanut butter was the solid base of the sandwich that held everything together. But the moment appeared to overwhelm her, and she froze. Everything always rolled off Maddie, but Anna always connected to every emotion in the room.

Billy locked eyes with her. They were his eyes. No parent would admit they have a favorite child, and he loved Maddie so much it hurt, but Anna was his favorite. The introspective one—the future writer—the sharp mind always hiding behind her shy demeanor.

With the urging of his eyes, she relented and ran to him. Billy picked up both girls in each of his arms as if he were carrying two bags of groceries. The pain in his shoulder was excruciating, but he couldn’t feel it. They wrapped their small arms around his neck and pulled their faces close. They always liked to smell his cologne.

He looked around the room and noticed Dana gulping back tears. Carolyn stood frozen, awestruck at seeing her bedtime-story heroes in the flesh, and was actually speechless. A rare moment indeed.

He hadn’t come back to get Kelly, seek revenge on LaRoche, or shoot anybody that night. He came back to see his daughters. Having them taken away was the thing that ripped out his soul. He had never been able to bring himself to talk about it.

After learning of Kelly’s affair, he confronted her, and was surprised that she didn’t even make a strong attempt at denying it. Then she went on offense—a Klein trait—as was never doing things halfway. She dropped the bomb that she was leaving him and taking the kids. She threatened that it would be in his best interest to not make any waves in her master plan, which was marrying LaRoche after his wife died, and erasing Billy from their new “perfect life,” trying to eliminate any “political baggage” from their journey to the White House.

Maddie and Anna were his life. The only thing that still mattered. He fought back, demanding joint custody. He threatened to go to the press and ruin Mr. Family Values if she pushed him.

But the all-powerful Klein/LaRoche team turned the story around on Billy. They created the fake photos of Kelly, her face beaten to a pulp. He was made out to be an abuser, stripping any credibility if he came forward with his claims. LaRoche spun his cozy relationship with Kelly as two friends comforting each other in their time of pain—LaRoche’s wife was dying, while Kelly was attempting to escape her abusive marriage. The court bought her lies and ordered Billy to stay away from her and the children indefinitely. Then Kelly moved the kids into LaRoche’s Washington home, continuing to act as if he were shielding a friend from an abusive relationship, while the senator played the role of knight in shining armor.

When Kelly left for Washington, she also brought their longtime nanny, Lucia. But Lucia never really cared for Kelly, who would constantly belittle her. Her loyalties had always been to Billy and the children—her attachment to the children was the reason she agreed to accompany them to D.C.—and she didn’t believe the lies that were being told about Billy. So she agreed to sneak him into the house that night to see his children.

Kelly and LaRoche were supposed to be out at a charity dinner that night for a shelter for abused women, which wasn’t a coincidence. Only one letter separated shame, of which they had none, and sham.

But before he could even get upstairs to the girls’ room, LaRoche showed up with his security detail. The fundraiser had been cancelled. The security pounced on Billy, but during the struggle, he was able to wrestle away one of their guns. It became a standoff. He held the gun at LaRoche, a man who had taken his wife, his good name, and now he wanted to take away his freedom. But most of all he’d stolen what was most precious to him—his children—Anna and Maddie.

At that point, Billy reached a dark layer most people don’t want to admit exists within them. He was about to shoot and kill a United States senator, and was going to pull the trigger without shame.

That’s when he heard Maddie’s voice on the stairwell. She was calling for Kelly—thought I heard Daddy’s voice. He was sobered to sanity and dropped the gun. Then the security force dropped him, and he was arrested. The final thing to be dropped were the charges, in a backroom deal between LaRoche and the judge, fearing word would leak of LaRoche’s affair if a trial took place. It was as if the whole thing never happened, a misunderstanding. But Billy still got the harshest of sentences. The judge was able to ban him from his children’s lives on the abuse charges, in a document that was sealed from the public for reasons of “national security,” which was still hard to believe. But no matter how laughable that was, there was nothing funny about it to Billy, as it served as a death sentence to him.

He lightly set down the two girls onto the hardwood floor. They were heavier than the last time he held them, over two years ago. He didn’t know what to do or say, so he just made mundane conversation.

“You’ve gotten really big.”

Anna just stared at him with googly eyes.

“We missed you, Daddy,” Maddie again took the lead.

“I missed you too,” he said, fighting back a tornado of emotions.

“Did you like Australia?” Anna finally talked.

Billy was at a loss. Then he caught a glimpse of Kelly out of the corner of his eye. Her guilty eyes moved to the floor. Australia was the cover story. It did have a nicer ring than the ugly truth.

He smiled at the girls. “It was nice, but it would’ve been better if you were there.”

“Anna did a class project on Australia,” Maddie spoke for her sister.

Class projects? The last time he saw them was their first day of kindergarten. He remembered having to cajole Anna inside the school after he dropped them off that morning. When he returned to pick them up, they were gone, and the only thing waiting for him was the initial restraining order that started this whole mess. Now they could probably read and write. He’d missed that. He missed so much.

“Is that right?” he addressed Anna.

“I like koala bears,” she replied, her small voice still unsure.

“And she plays the didgeridoo,” Maddie said, referring to a long, wooden instrument of the Aborigine tribes in Australia.

He continued the small talk, but wasn’t really listening. He was too busy taking in every facial expression, and searching for something he hadn’t seen before. The answers from the seven-year-olds were pretty bland anyway—yes, no, good, I don’t know.

“How’s school?”

“Good,” they said in unison.

“Are they treating you well?”

They looked strangely at him. Why wouldn’t they? “Yes.”

“What are you going to be for Halloween?”

“Princesses,” they sung out in chorus, Maddie’s voice dominating.

The princess reference sparked Carolyn from her catatonic state. The children all locked eyes, and Billy was as good as forgotten. “Who’s that?” the twins asked with curious joy.

“I’m Carolyn Whitcomb and you’re Peanut Butter and Jelly.”

“Do you wanna see our room?” Maddie asked.

“That sounds like fun!”

Maddie went to Kelly and asked, “Can we show Carolyn our room?”

Kelly smiled. “Only for a few minutes, we have dinner plans tonight.”

“When is our other dad coming home?” Maddie asked.

Other dad? Billy felt like Tyson just hit him with a gut-punch.

Kelly again guiltily looked away, focusing on the children. She flashed them the same look she provided Carolyn when she’d asked about the girth of her abdomen in the restaurant. It was the look that always made the children feel safe. He wasn’t about to call a woman who stole his children “a good mother,” but she was in many respects “good for them.” Even at the end when her heart iced over and she turned into Jacqueline Frost, she still displayed warmth for the girls.

Maddie ran up the stairs with Carolyn not far behind.

Anna waited for Billy. “Will you come too?” she asked.

No answer was necessary. He reached out and took her hand, and she led him upstairs into a room so pink it looked like a big piece of cotton candy.

He first noticed the pictures, including one of Anna and Maddie playing on a youth soccer team. He thought of the games he’d missed. Another picture of them with their “other dad” at some important looking political event. Another in which they were flower girls in the Klein/LaRoche wedding. He swallowed hard.

Then he wandered to what he assumed was Anna’s dresser, where he found an ugly clay sculpture that spelled out her name in large block letters. To Billy, it was as beautiful a work of art as the Sistine Chapel. And while he had been erased in the living room like a Russian dissident in the Stalin era, his photos still existed on Anna’s dresser. Anna would never forget him; it meant he really existed.

Maddie began showing Billy the stuffed animal koala bears that lined Anna’s pink bedspread. Then she excitedly showed off her fish named Majority Leader, which he figured had something to do with that “other dad.”

But he wasn’t upset. He saw two happy little girls. They weren’t sulking away their lives waiting for his return. They were resilient. It didn’t exactly thrill his ego that they thought more highly of LaRoche than the Ebola Virus, but when it came to his children, his heart always trumped his ego, and would sacrifice anything, including his own happiness, just to see a smile on their faces. And those smiles were ubiquitous in Maddie and Anna’s room.

The grown-up was long forgotten as the three children took turns blowing into the didgeridoo. It created horrible sounds that more resembled farting than music. The girls giggled.

But to keep the smiles glowing, especially Carolyn’s, Billy knew he had to get back to business. He quietly slipped out of the room and descended the stairs to confront his past. They didn’t have much time.

Chapter 88

“Call him,” Billy demanded.

“He would never leave the hearing,” Kelly put up a mild fight.

“Did he stutter? Call him,” Dana snarled. There was no love lost between the two women. And from the looks of things, it went beyond Dana scamming her into meeting. When Billy had returned to the room, Dana and Kelly were standing at opposite ends of the living room like two icebergs floating in frigid waters.

“What would I say?” Kelly snapped back

“Tell him your water broke. Mr. Family Values won’t miss a chance for a photo-op of him heroically taking his pregnant wife to the hospital.”

Billy was right. As soon as the LaRoche got word, he made an announcement that he must shut down the hearings on account he had to be with Kelly as she gave birth. He got an ovation from the other senators, at least those in his party, and rushed home. Within minutes, a police escort delivered his limousine to his house on Capital Hill.

Billy cut him off at the pass in the foyer, just inside the front entrance. An ambush. “Long time no see, Senator.”

LaRoche jumped back. If it was possible to ruffle his perfectly gelled hair and expensive suit, the sight of Billy the (not so) friendly ghost did just that.

“Jesus—what the hell are you doing in my house?”

“I set up a play-date with my own children.”

He shot a look at Kelly. “Are you okay?” he asked her like a concerned husband.

Her face said she wasn’t sure. It also exposed that she’d conspired against him. Once again, ironic. His gaze swelled with disappointment.

“Where are the kids?” he asked Kelly.

“My kids are playing upstairs,” Billy interjected.

“Did you also bring the girl you kidnapped?” LaRoche fired back.

“You can’t believe everything you read, can you, Senator?”

“Half the D.C. police department is waiting for us outside to escort Kelly and me to the hospital.”

“I suggest you tell them it’s a false alarm. For once, you’d actually be telling the truth.”

“You are going to jail, Harper.”

“Then I have nothing to lose, so this time I really am going to shoot you.”

Billy reached into his pocket and aggressively whipped out an object. LaRoche flinched. It wasn’t like he hadn’t pulled a gun on him before. Billy knew if Maddie hadn’t called out that night LaRoche would be running for re-election in a different world. And he was sure LaRoche knew it too.

But what he pulled out this time was a piece of paper, although, it was just as lethal. It was the same article he threatened Kelly with in the restaurant, the one that would be the cover of tomorrow’s Post, and then splashed all over the Internet blogs, talk radio, and cable news. The one that would be talked about at the water coolers. The one that would send his staff into damage control. The one that would end his run to the White House before it ever got started.

“Bang-bang,” he said with an unforgiving grin, and tossed it at LaRoche.

LaRoche scanned the article, his face sharpening. “Do you know who you’re messing with?”

“You already own the two most precious things in my life, so the way I see it, I have nothing to lose.”

“Your freedom.”

“If we both go down, you have a lot farther to fall, Senator.”

“What do you want?” He was not used to being the order-taker.

“I need your help.”

Confusion covered LaRoche’s face. It wasn’t the expected answer.

Billy followed LaRoche into his office, a powerful oak desk anchoring the room. The wall behind the desk was lined with photos of a younger LaRoche, mugging for the camera with presidents like Reagan and Bush, along with numerous other Washington powerbrokers and world dignitaries.

Billy didn’t have a lot of time to lose, so he gave the highlights version of everything he knew about Operation Anesthesia, including their interest in Carolyn. Then he made him a win-win offer.

If Billy were telling the truth, and LaRoche was credited for taking down Operation Anesthesia, he would be hailed as a hero. But if this were a desperate hoax, then he would be credited with turning over an infamous fugitive. And after delivering Billy, he would be able to discredit him and Spiegel to the point that the Post wouldn’t even have the guts to print the story.

Billy won the first hand. LaRoche blinked and said, “I know the one person in the world who could possibly shed some light on this so-called Operation Anesthesia.”

Chapter 89

Kerry Rutherford, the US Intelligence Czar, walked forcefully in LaRoche’s direction, a look of disdain on his face. “So can we get to why you demanded my presence, Senator? I’m sure you have some poll numbers to get back to. I, on the other hand, have lives to save!”

After the media was told it was a false alarm on the pregnancy and ushered away, Rutherford was snuck through a secret back entrance. Rutherford wore a suit, looking out of place without his usual military uniform. He was possibly the most important man in the country when it came to keeping people safe, but for some reason, he didn’t make Billy feel safe. There was something in the layers of secrets behind his eyes.

“Kerry, this is Billy Harper,” LaRoche made the introduction, “He has told me an interesting tale that I think is the concern of US intelligence,”

Rutherford’s brow crinkled. “I know who he is, Senator. He’s the man you stole your children from.” He turned toward Billy. “Between you and me, Mr. Harper, I would’ve shot the son of a bitch.”

Billy was surprised by the knowledge, but then remembered who he was talking to—the man probably knew who shot JFK or if man really landed on the moon. They also seemed to have a common bond in despising LaRoche, which Billy hoped would aid him in being heard out.

“But let me say something, son,” Rutherford continued, “taking somebody else’s kid is no way to get back at him.”

LaRoche stepped in, “That’s just it, Kerry. I think there might be extenuating circumstances on why he took the girl.”

“And this is a concern of national security?” Rutherford asked, skeptically.

Billy gave a “yes sir” nod. The intense Rutherford brought back bad memories of the first time he felt the wrath of Coach Blake during his freshman year.

“Then let’s hear it,” Rutherford said, in between glances at his watch.

They moved into LaRoche’s dining room, which featured dark mahogany furniture resting under a grand chandelier. The three men convened at one end of a freshly polished dining room table. Rutherford took symbolic position of power at the head of the table, looking like he was prepared to carve a Thanksgiving Day turkey. Billy began to tell the whole story from soup to nuts, hoping he wouldn’t become the turkey.

Rutherford listened intently, like a priest hearing confession. He would occasionally nod his head, but didn’t tip his hand. When Billy finished his crazed tale, Rutherford cleared his throat and said, “We have been tracking Operation Anesthesia for some time now.”

Billy was surprised by the admission. He was more expecting to be secured in a straightjacket and sent to the loony bin.

“Tell me this thing isn’t connected to the CIA or any US intelligence agency,” LaRoche condescendingly addressed Rutherford.

Rutherford’s glare practically slapped LaRoche across the face. “It did start out as part of the DIA,” he replied, before remembering Billy’s amateur status and dumbed it down, “DIA stands for the Defense Intelligence Agency, a Pentagon sponsored intelligence agency. As with most things, the research started out with good intentions. It was run by some of America’s most brilliant doctors. The purpose was to research weapons and tactics of medical warfare. Mostly defensive tactics. For example, if our enemies found a way to invade our food supply, or attack us with a deadly strain of the flu, it would be as effective as any weapon of mass destruction. The group’s purpose was to find ways to stop such attacks.

“But in the mid-1980s, post Iran Contra, most politicians lost their gumption. And at that moment in history many covert sections of the intelligence community were disbanded or declared illegal. Basically, they tied our hands behind our backs.”

His glare never left LaRoche, whose posture cowered.

“What does this have to do with this Operation Anesthesia that’s after Carolyn?” Billy asked.

Rutherford nodded, as if to say he was getting to that. “There was a section of this group that performed research on genetic mutations. One such mutation being studied was CIPA. The sub-section in charge of research on CIPA was known as Operation Anesthesia. What we later learned was that a couple of ambitious doctors continued the work after Operation Anesthesia was officially disbanded by the DIA. Since those with CIPA couldn’t feel pain or temperature sensation, they were kidnapped and bred as soldiers who could go anywhere and survive any amount of torture. These rogue doctors then began selling these soldiers to our enemies. In the 1980s it was Eastern Bloc countries and Middle Eastern nations like Libya and Iraq. Lately it’s been terrorist organizations like Al Muttahedah.”

“Let me guess,” LaRoche snidely interrupted, “you have conveniently forgotten to catch them over the years because of the potential embarrassment, since it originated in your precious DIA?”

Rutherford stung LaRoche with a glare that Darth Vader would’ve been proud of. “Politicians,” he mumbled with disgust, before continuing, “On the contrary, ever since we became convinced that they were responsible for what happened in Iran, Operation Anesthesia became the top priority of US intelligence.”

“And you never thought to mention this during the hearings?”

“Those hearings had nothing to do with the truth or Iran. They were about you and your colleagues getting your faces on television.”

“Do you know how many taxpayer dollars were wasted?”

“A US senator telling me about wasting taxpayer dollars, now that’s a good one.”

“You did a disservice to your country,” LaRoche fired away, as if they were back at the hearings.

Billy noticed the comment hit a nerve. Rutherford appeared to take patriotic pride in being the nation’s protector. His face darkened to crimson and a vein jetted from his forehead.

“The reason I didn’t mention this was because lives are at stake. A concept you wouldn’t understand, Senator. We’ve been getting close for years, but never could infiltrate it. But since Iran, we have been able to get a man on the inside. And what we learned from him has been backed up by Mr. Harper’s story.”

“Who is this so-called source?” LaRoche asked skeptically.

“It’s classified, even to you, Senator. All I can say is he’s a doctor who is embedded in the operation.”

“Why not just bring in the National Guard and break down the gates?” LaRoche asked. It was logical.

“If I broke down the gates and was found to be wrong, and we had another Waco on our hands, then you and your cronies would have dragged me down to Capital Hill for another public stoning. I work for the President of the United States, and he doesn’t appreciate your little commissions.”

“Who is Hasenfus?” Billy interrupted their cold stare-down, “Or should I say Franklin Stipe.”

Rutherford pulled his angry glare away from LaRoche, and answered, “We believe Stipe is a partner with Jordan who runs a company called Stipe Security. We believe Stipe Security helps fund the operation. Stipe once worked for the DIA, and we think that’s where the connection began. I think if we find whoever set up Stipe Security, then you will find the true mastermind behind Operation Anesthesia.”

LaRoche didn’t look happy. “Stipe Security is a legitimate company that receives hundreds of millions of dollars in government contracts. In fact, I use them myself to protect my house and family.”

“Since Stipe Security is one of your main campaign contributors, it doesn’t surprise me that you have been very supportive of them getting those government contracts. And I hate to be a cynic, but since I know they installed those expensive, high-tech security systems into your homes at no charge, I might be led to conclude they gave you a little thank-you note for your assistance.”

LaRoche conveniently changed the subject, “What do we do now?”

Rutherford strapped on an “I’m in charge” look. “Thanks to Mr. Harper, we now have the second source we need to go in. I have a Special Ops unit on standby in Clarksville, prepared to strike. I will ask the president for permission to go in at sun-up. We can’t wait any longer. With Jordan out of the picture, they will be on the move within forty-eight hours.”

Billy saw the political glimmer in LaRoche’s eyes. It said he found a way to capitalize on the situation. The way Billy saw it, LaRoche would work with Rutherford, making sure to be front and center in the glorious photo-op when mission was accomplished. He’d look tough on national security, but at the same time look like he was putting the country’s best interests over partisan politics by working with Rutherford and the current administration. But if things went badly, he could plausibly deny any connection, and could use the “screw up” as a political anvil to hold over the current president in the next election.

“I pledge my full support,” he predictably said.

The response didn’t seem to surprise Rutherford, who had one last request. “I would like to meet this other fine patriot, Carolyn Whitcomb.”

Carolyn was pulled away in the middle of telling Anna and Maddie the heartwarming story of how she got shot. She walked into the dining room and was immediately hesitant of Rutherford’s presence. Billy wondered if she’d seen the same thing in his eyes that he had.

Rutherford pulled her up on his lap as if he were a mall Santa Claus. “I just had to meet this brave hero,” he gushed.

“Who are you?” she asked, hesitancy in her voice.

“My name is Kerry.”

“Kerry is a girl’s name.”

She tried to squirm away. Billy could tell she was cognizant of her rudeness.

Rutherford began to poke and prod her. “Amazing,” he mumbled at every indication that she really couldn’t feel pain. And this guy probably knew about the aliens in Roswell, Billy thought. It must have taken a lot to amaze him.

“If you don’t mind, I wanna go back and play with Anna and Maddie,” Carolyn said. She urgently hopped off his lap and bolted toward the door. Maybe it was a desire to get back to playing with the twins, but Billy sensed it was something more.

“Carolyn,” Rutherford barked in his commanding voice.

She stopped in her tracks, a frightful look on her face. “Yes.”

“Your country thanks you for your service.”

“Tell him he’s welcome,” she said and exited stage left.

After Rutherford left, LaRoche called in his long-time, and more importantly, tight-lipped, doctor to his home under the ruse that Kelly was having issues with her pregnancy. But his real job was to patch up Billy and Carolyn. Billy’s dislocated shoulder was placed in a sling. Carolyn had her bullet wound looked at, along with checking for any internal injuries that might’ve resulted from her tumble off the plantation wall. She was also running one of her fevers, most likely from all the commotion of playing with the girls. Everything considered, she received a clean bill of health.

Dana slept with Carolyn in the guestroom, while Billy slept on the couch in the living room. Sometime during the night, Anna came downstairs and slipped next to Billy on the couch. Then Anna’s protective older sister—by seven minutes—came looking for her. Maddie climbed up next to Anna and Billy and snuggled up to them.

Chapter 90

Dash Naqui was making the trip from New York to Clarksville to meet with Jordan. It was a trip he’d made hundreds of times. But then everything changed.

He didn’t have time to wonder about the who, why, or how Jordan was killed. His first order of business was to stabilize the operation. Jordan had willed the plantation to a phony medical research group headed up by Naqui, to cover their ass-ets if an emergency situation were to occur.

But Naqui didn’t get there soon enough. André Rose, who had escaped in Iran, and Carolyn Whitcomb, a four-year-old girl whom Stipe assured would be a simple capture, were able to trespass onto the grounds. And by doing so, they exposed a major breach in what once was impenetrable security.

Luckily, Naqui had already been en route to the plantation, and his presence was able to stabilize any further chaos. But André wasn’t talking, and any torture to try to make him come clean would be fruitless. He had been trained by them to withstand such tactics. Naqui saw the irony, but also knew André had a weak spot—his loyalty to his mother and siblings. That was where his true threshold for pain resided.

The little girl was another story. When tossed back over the wall, she technically became the first CIPA child to escape the grounds of the plantation. She and her handlers would be a major problem. Especially with her surprising connection to André Rose, who most likely passed them intimate knowledge of the inner workings of the plantation and Operation Anesthesia.

Naqui stood in Jordan’s upstairs office and peered out over the plantation grounds, trying to convince himself that he’d stabilized any lurking trouble. But he felt the storm clouds on the horizon. It was a lot like when he first saw Claire’s hands shake and he convinced himself it was nothing. “Just nerves,” he told himself at the time. He looked at his own hands and they were now shaking.

A phone call jolted him from his spell. It was Rutherford, reporting that their worst fears had come true. Rutherford had just left a surprise meeting with Carolyn Whitcomb, Billy Harper, and Senator Oliver LaRoche. Just as Naqui feared, Harper and the girl had come to LaRoche with knowledge of the inner workings of Operation Anesthesia, maintaining that they were working with the Rose brothers. Rutherford took credit for thinking on his feet to momentarily hold off any investigation.

“We began this together, Dash, and now we must end it together. And in the end, you and I will stand tall like heroes,” Rutherford said.

“Do you have a plan?” Naqui surrendered. He didn’t need any speeches. He was a doctor, he knew Operation Anesthesia was dead.

“Tomorrow at daybreak I’m going to authorize a staged attack of the plantation with Stipe’s men operating under the identity of a covert Special Ops team under my control. Their mission will be to take down Operation Anesthesia, but they really will be eliminating any evidence of our connection. I told LaRoche I had an embedded doctor source on the inside who confirmed what Harper and the girl said. History will record that courageous doctor as you, Dash.”

Naqui remained quiet, allowing Rutherford to continue waving his pompoms, “We will be cheered for saving the day, but in the end, you and I both know the only thing we did was guarantee another 9/11, or worse.”

Naqui’s thoughts traveled back to the beginning, trying to focus on the lives they had saved. But he kept returning to the present. “What about all those at the camp? And the children?”

“Dash, we must eliminate all the evidence. It is for the greater good.”

Naqui’s stomach slipped. They were like his children. He felt conflicted, just as Lincoln had spoke of, but was no longer sure he had Honest Abe’s Teflon resolve. He forced himself to push on. “Can Stipe’s men be trusted?”

“Stipe overestimated their loyalty. They are now working for me. But I’m going to need you to take care of Stipe, so he doesn’t become a nuisance.”

The idea of taking care of Stipe almost brought a smile to Naqui’s face.

A long silence filled the phone line, before Rutherford made his closing argument, “Mourning the sacrifices is counterproductive, and should be left in the rear-view mirror, Dash. We performed a heroic service, but all things run their course. We must focus on all the lives saved, and freedom preserved, all thanks to Operation Anesthesia.”

Naqui looked out the window at the quiet grounds. The quiet before the storm. He listened to what Rutherford said, but he wasn’t so sure anymore. Just as the black and white had turned to gray, the shades of gray had now tuned to darkness.

Chapter 91

Wednesday morning began with overcast skies and a slight drizzle. Naqui sat behind a desk in Jordan’s former office, the one on the lower level of the manor house that was once Sir Quincy’s bedchamber. Another member of the Jordan lineage with dreams of grandeur, who died a youthful death.

He looked out the window at the gloomy weather, thinking it was fitting. It was the final day of Operation Anesthesia, and endings were usually gloomy. Naqui fell into a melancholy trance, his mind waging an inner debate on the merits and morals of the last twenty years. Was it really for the greater good? Or was Jordan right; were they just slaves at a five star resort, the very thing Lincoln would have fought against?

An aggressive knock rattled him back to reality. Before he could even respond, the door flew open and Franklin Stipe arrogantly limped into the office. He wore a blue Stipe Security rain slicker and a cocky smile. For a man who failed to capture a four-year-old girl, he was sure pretty confident.

“You rang, doc?”

Naqui sat with the cool of an assassin. “Please sit down.”

“I’ll stand.”

“Would you like some coffee?”

“Can we get to the point? Unlike you doctors, I actually work for a living. I’m in the middle of interrogating André Rose.”

“Speaking of which,” Naqui began matter of fact, “we have decided to replace you as head trainer.”

Stipe’s face roared. “Then you better start praying to your imaginary friend Allah because you’re going down with me.”

“Just calm down, Franklin.”

Stipe pulled out his loaded Glock. “No—I won’t calm down. I built this place and I’ll decide when I leave. And if you try anything, I’ll put a real dot in your head. Then who will take care of Shakes?”

Stipe performed a cruel imitation of Claire. Naqui remained calm, focusing on how much he was going to enjoy watching Stipe die.

“If you’d let me finish, what I’m trying to say is that lately I’ve been examining my future. I could never bring myself to step down the last few years, but Samuel’s death has forced me to face my own mortality, and made me realize there are other things I want to focus on in my later years. So I talked to our contact in Washington, and we both agreed I would step down as Chief Managing Partner. I will continue to consult on the medical side if asked, but it will be up to you, since you will be the new CMP of Operation Anesthesia.”

Stipe never trusted. “What’s the catch?”

“There is no catch. Truth be told, I think you’re an arrogant son of a bitch. But I grudgingly have to admit you’ve been the blood and guts of this place for as long as I can remember, and a change should have been made a long time ago. I no longer have the same passion. My focus these days is solely on Claire.”

An “about time” grin leaked out of the corner of Stipe’s mouth. “Well then, doc, I say we have a toast with the Naqui Cocktail. My leg has been killing me.”

Naqui flashed his assassin smile as he pulled open the top drawer of the desk. His weapon was already loaded.

Stipe first removed his rain slicker, and then his T-shirt, revealing his burned torso. Naqui found a vain on his arm and applied the needle, just as he’d done so many times in the past.

But this time was different. This time the syringe was loaded with a lethal combination of drugs. It was death by lethal injection. Naqui waited calmly as Stipe’s shield of arrogance withered away. But before he died, he became like many of the children he’d kidnapped over the years...

A scared child.

Chapter 92

Mitchell Jones wore a black Harley Davidson T-shirt and camouflage pants as he led a squad deep into the plantation grounds. Ironically, their mission this day was to destroy the place they spent years building and protecting.

The first stop was the old slave quarters that rested in a wooded area behind the Jordan Family Memorial Cemetery. It was where the Anesthesia soldiers were housed. Since all they knew was taking orders from trainers, it would be the easiest suicide pact since Jonestown. This would be Mitchell Jones-town.

As his first act as head trainer, replacing the late Franklin Stipe, Jones was determined to get it right. Rutherford promised him a job as his personal assistant after the mission was complete, and assured him any investigation into the security guard he shot at the school in Schenectady would magically disappear. Mitchell Jones was going to the White House—who would-a thunk it? He was surprised the weather was so gloomy. Usually gloomy weather represents an ending, but for Jones it was a new beginning.

He moved to the housing quarters of the Anesthesia soldiers. As expected, they flawlessly executed his orders. They torched the slave quarters and set themselves on fire. It was what they were trained to do, and they didn’t feel a thing.

Jones’s next move was to send two of his men—Regan and Poindexter—to torch all the other buildings on the property. Rutherford made himself very clear he wanted no evidence left behind. Not even a fingernail!

Jones then moved toward the water where the stables were located. The place where the men, or stallions, as that freaky doctor Jordan would call them, were housed. He was sure they would put up more of a fight than the children. He hoped so—he loved a good fight. But he knew he’d come out on top in the end. The laws of nature dictated that he would. He was the fittest, and therefore he would survive. A lesson Franklin Stipe had just learned the hard way.

Chapter 93

Chuck sat in his stable apartment, ready to strike the monster. Strangely enough, Operation Anesthesia had helped prepare him for his battle against them.

The stables were originally built by a horse breeder who once owned the plantation. They didn’t have a trough or hay on the floor anymore. The building had been converted into small housing units that reminded Chuck of the closet-sized apartment he shared with Beth in Albany, only much cleaner.

Chuck could smell the smoke and hear the crackling of fire. He wasn’t sure what was going on, all he knew was that he had to get to Beth. But then he started to recognize the sounds. It was the sound of the doors opening, followed by a gunshot, then the short-lived shriek of a male voice. They were shooting his fellow “stallions.” It was death by firing squad.

The sounds grew closer.

Chuck held tightly onto his weapon of choice. He was good with a rifle, but he was deadly with a hockey stick.

When they provided him the stick upon his arrival, Jordan told him they wanted to make all the “residents” comfortable with their new surroundings, so they would be at their best when “performing.” Operation Anesthesia meticulously researched each of their lives, and since Chuck was a hockey player, they felt the stick would be a form of positive reinforcement. Of course, Jordan’s henchmen also mentioned that if he chose to use the stick for the “wrong” reasons, he would be one man against an army and an inescapable wall. And if that wasn’t deterrent enough, they had his wife as collateral.

He got the message, but now he was going to deliver one of his own. He wasn’t going to die without putting up a fight that Beth would be proud of.

Three doors down—open—shot—shriek. Then two. Then his neighbor, a nice guy from Sweden named Mats Lerner, who liked soccer, and had a son named Petr at the camp. Chuck was next. He fought himself to remain patient. He tightened the grip on the stick, thinking of Beth. He was channeling her—she was his self-control.

When his door swung open, Chuck uncoiled like a cobra. He used an old hockey trick: slash the forehead, causing blood to run into the eyes like a waterfall, and blinding the opponent.

The man, who Carolyn had referred to as Osama Banana, looked stunned when the blade of the stick slit the area just above his thick eyebrows. He shot wildly, lodging a bullet into the wooden wall behind Chuck’s ear.

Chuck went back to the great martial art of hockey fighting. While his opponent was blinded, he grabbed him with his left arm and dropped about twenty punches to his bloody head with his right. The left arm was the key in holding his opponent upright, which was easier in the stable than on the ice. Most fights ended up in wrestling matches on the ground, leveling the playing field. As long as they stood, Chuck held the advantage over his blinded opponent.

Chuck released hold of the blood-soaked Harley Davidson T-shirt and karate-chopped the gun out of his hand. After kicking the gun away, Chuck grabbed him with his punching hand and went to his next hockey fighting tactic—pulling the jersey, in this case a T-shirt, over the head from the back. When he was fully debilitated, Chuck let the dazed man fall to the floor. He scooped up the gun and ran toward what he hoped was Beth’s direction.

Chapter 94

Beth and the other mothers were packed flesh-to-flesh in the “security room.” Their existence was no longer comparable to plantation life in the 18th century. It now resembled the concentration camps of Nazi Germany.

The majority of the captives showed little emotion. But Beth wasn’t a member of the “living dead club,” so she gravitated to someone she knew still had some fight left—her mother. They hugged and cried the way they should have at Beth’s wedding and her father’s funeral.

Nobody was sure what was happening, but it wasn’t good. Smoke streamed in from the vent. Within minutes, it encompassed the area like a morning fog in San Francisco. A symphony of coughing filled the room. Beth’s worst fears were coming to light through the haze of smoke—it was going to be death by gas chamber!

As her lungs were contaminated with the poisonous fumes, she became lightheaded. She reached for her mother and held on with all her remaining strength. But as the smoke thickened, she could no longer fight it off. Then she lost consciousness in her mother’s arms.

* * *

Chuck was disoriented. The property was huge—five hundred acres, he remembered that bastard Jordan saying on their initial tour. And with fires burning everywhere, he wasn’t sure where he was headed. The horror and chaos reminded him of a movie he saw about Pearl Harbor. He just kept running. “Beth!” he shouted, hoping she would magically appear. It wouldn’t be the first time she came out of nowhere to save him. He kept screaming it, “Beth! Beth!”

He arrived at the stone-built kitchen. Flames had taken it hostage, black smoke jetting out of its windows like an oil tanker ablaze. He tried to bypass it, but then he heard a woman’s voice. It was soft, and he wondered if he was hearing things. He listened closer to make sure. He had no idea if it was Beth, but he rushed into the dilapidating building, doing his best to avoid flaming objects falling from the roof.

He looked to the floor and saw a woman. It wasn’t Beth—it was her friend Miss Rose. He ran to her and checked her vitals. She was still alive, but couldn’t survive much more smoke. He attempted to pick up the heavy-set woman and carry her out. Chuck was a strong as an ox, but she was testing his strength. The thick smoke blinded him as he attempted to navigate his way out of the inferno. By sheer luck he found the doorway out of the burning structure and they collapsed on a patch of grass, gasping for air.

“What’s going on?” Chuck asked frantically.

“I don’t know,” she said in a constricted voice. She could barely talk. She took a look at the grounds, watching Rome burn. “Holy Mary mother of God,” she muttered.

“Do you know where Beth is?”

“Probably in the tunnels under the manor house.”

“Which way is that?”

Miss Rose forced herself to stand, continuing to cough, but showing surprising strength. “I’ll take you there, but first we have to get André out of the stockade.”

“We don’t have time, we have to get to Beth,” he pleaded. He would make no apologies for his selfishness.

She rose from the ashes, literally, and waddled down a tree-lined path toward André. “He told me he saved your daughter.”

Chuck followed, the tug of her guilt trip too powerful. The stockade wasn’t far, maybe a few hundred feet from the kitchen. It was a small, run-down shack, once used to store farming equipment.

André was constricted in a medieval-looking contraption in which his head and arms were locked to the device. They were popular in the US during the 18th century as a source of public humiliation for lawbreakers, the townsfolk often lobbing rotten tomatoes at the shackled culprit in the town square.

“Get me out of here,” he squealed.

“I’m here, baby,” Miss Rose said. She walked over and gave him a sloppy kiss on his trapped face. Then after another coughing fit, she turned to Chuck.

“What are you waiting for? Shoot!” she ordered.

Chuck looked at her with shock. “Eh?”

“The only way he can get out of the stockade is to shoot the locks off. Hurry, we have to hurry!”

“But they’re right by his head.”

André interjected, “You’re Chuck Whitcomb.”

“How’d you know that?”

“Billy Harper described you perfectly.”

It was like they knew each other. “How’s my daughter?”

“She needs you—so hurry! Hit me in the limbs if you have to, I can’t feel pain. But you need to shoot off the locks.”

Chuck aimed and fired at the locks. Sure enough, one shot skipped off the rusted lock and lodged in André’s shoulder blade. He didn’t even twitch. But the bullet also shattered the locks.

Miss Rose helped raise the contraption off of André, freeing his head and hands. She once again had helped him to freedom. He couldn’t feel the discomfort that a non-CIPA person would feel from being locked in the same position for days, but his body appeared in need of a good chiropractor. He couldn’t lift his head up straight, and despite his best efforts, his arms wouldn’t raise.

André and his mother then had an intense moment. It was like they were saying goodbye, Chuck thought.

* * *

André ran off as fast as he could, which wasn’t that fast. He fell numerous times, but kept going. He ran all the way to the burning slave quarters that housed the CIPA kids. He first ran to his brothers’ house. Many of them were already gone, but some were still alive. He pulled them out, one by one, with every ounce of energy left in his body. Then he moved his attention to the others. Some were on fire, some weren’t. Those on fire he rolled in the grass. Some actually fought him off, trying to carry out their orders.

He went house by house, saving as many as he could until his body finally gave out. To nobody’s surprise, André sacrificed his own life to save others.

Chapter 95

Chuck followed Miss Rose to the manor house. The good news was that it was about the only thing on the property that wasn’t swallowed up by flames.

“They probably are locked in the ‘security room,’” Miss Rose said between coughs.

“Let’s go!” Chuck shouted out, his voice desperate.

“First we need to get the key card.”

“Where’s that?”

“Dr. Jordan used to keep it in his bedchambers on the second level.”

They ran into the house via the English basement. It appeared empty. Chuck had the gun ready just in case. They moved to the first floor, into the empty saloon, and then ascended the grand staircase where Carolyn had performed her “gotchya” joke during their earlier visit.

“I’ll go get it, you stand guard,” she instructed.

“Hurry,” he urged.

Chuck waited outside the room until his patience grew thin. “C’mon, c’mon,” he mumbled. When what seemed like minutes went by, he got jumpy and burst into the room. What he saw was Miss Rose laying on the bed, a man about to inject her with a syringe.

It was the Pakistani doctor from the plane, the one who paralyzed him and Beth. The doctor must have been hiding in the room. Chuck’s eyes filled with revenge. He moved behind the man and surprised him with a gun handle to the head. The doctor toppled to the floor.

“I’m on your side—I am undercover,” the doctor groaned, looking up at his assailant.

Chuck didn’t have time to investigate. “Do you have the key?” he asked Miss Rose.

She nodded her head, but she wasn’t moving. Chuck realized it was because she was tied up. He quickly untied her, then gave Doctor Paralysis another kick to the head, which would put him in a deep sleep for a while. They then sprinted to the elevator that he hoped would bring him to Beth.

The hallways of the underground caves were full of smoke. They covered their mouths and noses the best they could and fought through it. Chuck followed Miss Rose like a halfback behind his pulling guard. She used her twenty years of experience to guide them through the hazy fumes. In the distance, they could hear medical supplies exploding like fireworks on the Fourth of July. They reached the “security room” and Miss Rose used the key card to open its heavy door.

What they found was horrifying. It was a pile of death. Bodies on top of bodies. It was Auschwitz.

“Oh my God—no!” Chuck shouted as he dashed in. He pulled people out—some alive—some he wasn’t sure—some were already gone. He wouldn’t stop until he found Beth.

He located her, barely conscious, clinging to an older woman. He slung his wife over his shoulder and ran out, stepping on bodies. It might’ve been selfish, but he didn’t care—the only thing he cared about was Beth.

He laid her on the ground and checked her pulse. It was slight, and her breathing shallow.

“Stay with me, baby!” he shouted, tapping her cheeks. The ones she passed on to Carolyn.

Her eyes struggled open and he gave a “thank God” gesture to the sky. Miss Rose continued dragging people out. The woman, the one Beth was clinging to, also tried her best to help between ferocious coughs, but was too weak to make a difference.

Chuck couldn’t leave Beth. He looked deep into her eyes. The eyes she passed on to Carolyn. “Are you alright?”

She smiled. “I am now.”

He always knew when she wasn’t telling the truth.

Chapter 96

Mitchell Jones was never one to stay down on the canvas. He tore off a piece of his bloodstained T-shirt and tied it around his wounded forehead, Karate Kid-style. He then maneuvered around the plantation, completing his mission. Nothing remained standing as he eliminated any remaining evidence. Well, not all of it, but he would keep the part about Chuck Whitcomb beating him to a pulp and disappearing with his gun to himself.

When he finished torching the barn where the stallions were kept, he took care of his own men. Everyone and everything was evidence. One by one he executed all of his men, including his long time confidants, Regan and Poindexter. Survival of the fittest, he proudly thought.

He then returned to the Plantation Office and prepared it for a torching of biblical proportions. He drenched it with gasoline from a can he found in a rusted tool shed behind the office. He was ready to set the place ablaze when a man in a formal military uniform walked in like he owned the place.

“Has the mission been completed?” Kerry Rutherford asked in his intimidating voice.

“All secure,” Jones replied, leaving out the part about Chuck Whitcomb. He probably tried to escape over the wall anyway and was now nothing but charcoal.

“You got rid of all the evidence?” Rutherford double checked.

“The place is nothing but a big barbecue,” Jones boasted.

“So it is safe to bring in Senator LaRoche?”

“Yes sir.”

“But I think you missed one piece of evidence, Jones.”

Did he know about Whitcomb? He didn’t ascend to the head of US intelligence by not knowing stuff.

“What’s that?” Jones attempted to play dumb.

Rutherford pulled out a pistol and coldly said, “You.”

Jones actually smiled with admiration as he stared down the barrel of the gun. This was survival of the fittest in its purest form. He had taken his mind off the quest—seeking credit, just like Stipe—and he knew it. It went against the laws of nature. His last thought was how proud he was to serve under a man like Rutherford, who was a true survivalist like himself.

Chapter 97

Billy sat in the back of Senator Oliver LaRoche’s stretch limousine, parked safely outside the gates of Jordan Plantation. LaRoche sat to his right, with Dana and Carolyn on his other side. LaRoche was dressed in what all politicians wear when they want to be filmed looking like the “common man”—the dreaded flannel shirt. Dana and Carolyn were dressed to impress, robbing Kelly and Maddie’s respective closets. Billy was not going for the dapper look. He wore a ragged, scarlet and gray Ohio State sweatshirt that Kelly had stolen from him years ago.

Before leaving for the plantation, Billy did what he should have done hundreds of times over the past couple years—he kissed his daughters good-bye, hugged them the best he could with the sling on his shoulder, and then went to work. LaRoche called off Wednesday’s Senate hearings due to “important and confidential” information he received last evening concerning the Iran hostage situation. They then drove to Clarksville and waited for the sun to rise over Buggs Island Lake, but it never showed.

But the gloomy, overcast morning was soon ablaze, a volcano of fire erupting throughout the plantation. They couldn’t help but stare with stunned silence from the safety of the limo. Billy made eye contact with Dana, who communicated back her fear for Chuck and Beth’s safety.

Billy could tell LaRoche had other things on his mind, perhaps debating a fast getaway as the place went up like Waco. Another government invasion into a cult compound that ended up in disaster, filled with an inferno of death and fire. Billy had to admit that LaRoche was good at his craft. He knew that when potential political fires swirled, you don’t go back in to save people or stop-drop-and-roll, you run like hell in the other direction and never admit you were there.

Carolyn was mesmerized, as if she were watching Fourth of July fireworks. “That’s a big barbecue,” she said in typical do-ra-mi.

“It sure is,” Billy said, his distracted thoughts still squarely on Chuck and Beth.

“Is all that fire because the dragons live there? They shoot fire, ya know.”

“The fire is because the fireflies have all joined together to make one really-really big firefly that is beating up all the dragons.”

“Dragons are mean,” Carolyn added. “I’m glad a really-really big firefly is beating them up.”

So was Billy.

LaRoche finally received the call they’d been nervously waiting for. Likely wanting witnesses to cover his rear, he allowed everyone in the car to listen to the call through a Bluetooth hands-free device built into the vehicle’s stereo system. Rutherford described an epic battle that confirmed that the plantation was the headquarters of Operation Anesthesia. It had been secured by his men and was now safe to enter.

The limo drove down the long driveway, trying to avoid the sights, sounds, and smell of what looked like a war-torn nation. They moved under the arch-like entry and pulled right up to the front of the manor house.

LaRoche walked with hesitance. Politicians like certainty. Not the hero or goat potential of an athlete. Carolyn walked with a similar hesitancy, stating that all the dragons hadn’t been removed. But there was no turning back now. Billy reached his hands out to his “Bonnies,” who grabbed on for safety as they walked through the open front door.

“In here,” echoed the voice of Kerry Rutherford. It was his “I’m in charge” voice.

They passed through the empty dining room that smelled charred, but was still intact, including the guillotine-looking fan over the table. The next room was the impressive saloon that contained the grand staircase Carolyn joked she was going to leap off during Billy’s last visit. It was only a few weeks ago, but seemed like a different lifetime.

Rutherford stood by the staircase. He appeared most ready for the photo op, decked out in a military uniform for the occasion.

“There were many casualties,” Rutherford grimly informed.

“How many?” LaRoche asked with concern. Billy figured he was still pondering an escape. Casualties never look good in tomorrow’s newspaper, even if the cause was just.

“No way to tell right now. We are still searching the grounds,” Rutherford stated with a quiver of emotion in his voice. “We’re dealing with five hundred acres.”

“What about my sister and her husband?” Dana blurted out.

Rutherford ominously lowered his head. “Operation Anesthesia began trying to burn all the evidence and all those who were enslaved here. And when my men tried to stop them, they were fired upon.”

“You didn’t answer the question,” Billy stated angrily. He was still not getting a good vibe from Rutherford. He looked to Carolyn, who was a savant when it came to vibes, and he could tell she was no fan either.

“Fireflies didn’t get all the dragons,” she muttered, her eyes searching for an escape route.

“No, we haven’t found them yet. And I’m going to be straight with you—I fear the worst. We’ve found underground tunnels containing piles of bodies. People were murdered like those in a concentration camp,” Rutherford said.

Billy put an arm around Dana. She lost all the color in her face and looked on the verge of collapse.

LaRoche was more pragmatic. “What about the evidence? Were you able to save any?”

“We are actively searching.”

“Then how can you be so sure this was Operation Anesthesia?” LaRoche squealed in a high-pitched voice, constricted by the tightening political noose.

“Because I know it is,” Rutherford barked. “My men just died to find this deadly truth, so don’t you attack my integrity, Senator!”

“What about your inside source? We need him to validate your claims.”

“We haven’t located him yet. And my claims don’t need validation.”

Just as Rutherford’s words vaporized into the air, a rumble could be heard from the top of the stairs. They looked to see a woozy looking man who appeared to have taken a blow to the head. He began to gingerly descend the stairs

“Dash—you’re alive,” Rutherford exclaimed.

The man didn’t reply. He appeared dazed, looking around the room like he was trying to get his bearings. So Rutherford spoke for him.

“This, Senator, is the brave and heroic doctor who was so willing to risk his own life for the greater good. He was able to infiltrate Operation Anesthesia.”

Chapter 98

Carolyn looked puzzled. She seemed to be having trouble placing the doctor on the dragon/firefly scale. She usually didn’t have these troubles. “Who are you?” she asked.

Billy recognized the man, and had no trouble placing him on the scale. “Carolyn, this is Dr. Dash Naqui.”

“Do I know you?” the man finally spoke.

“You treated a friend of mine many years ago. Perhaps you remember—it was on Christmas Day in New York,” Billy informed.

“What was your friend’s name?”

“Nathan Pennington.”

Naqui’s eyes shifted away. “I treat a lot of people.”

LaRoche looked uneasy. This was the direct opposite of certainty.

“I’m sure you do, doctor, but I would think you would remember the ones you kidnap.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about.”

“I’m talking about Nathan Pennington and his parents, Carol Ann and Steve. Did you ever find their daughter Elizabeth, Dr. Naqui?”

Rutherford erupted, “You are out of line, Mr. Harper. This man is a hero and a patriot.”

“And a kidnapper.”

“Takes one to know one, Harper. You need to stand down.”

Billy stared down the bully. “Were you involved in this also?”

Rutherford’s face scorched with anger.

LaRoche squirmed. “I think we all need to calm down. Baseless accusations aren’t helping us solve this. Let’s stick to the facts.”

They were interrupted by a crash coming from the basement. Loud footsteps then barreled up the creaky stairs.

A voice called out. “Help—somebody—I need a doctor!”

It was a voice Billy recognized.

It was Chuck’s voice.

“Daddy!” Carolyn shouted out.

A charred and ashen Chuck Whitcomb entered the room with Beth lying lifelessly in his arms. He softly set her on the ground and kissed her on the forehead. Only a soft cough indicated any sign of life.

“I’m a doctor,” Naqui offered, moving toward Beth.

Chuck wouldn’t have it. “You stay away from her.”

“Your wife is dying—I’m the only one here who can help her.”

Chuck punched the man in the jaw and he fell to the ground.

“You know him?” Billy asked.

“He’s the one who paralyzed us with drugs to bring us here. Then he tried to do it again upstairs.”

Rutherford spoke over them, “Dr. Naqui was playing a role. You don’t understand what one has to do to infiltrate an organization. You must demonstrate loyalty.”

Chuck didn’t care. He picked up Naqui by the shirt collar and stuck his gun in his face. “If she dies, you die. Fix her!”

Naqui kneeled beside Beth and took her pulse. His facial expressions were not giving off confidence.

Another woman appeared from the basement and called out, “Please help! People are down here—please help!”

The woman was on the backend of middle age and her face was wrinkled with anguish. Billy couldn’t place her, but was sure he knew her from somewhere.

When the woman saw Naqui next to Beth, she turned into a pit bull. “You—you son of a bitch!” she exclaimed.

“I’m trying to help her,” Naqui replied.

“Like you helped my son by kidnapping him? You get away from my daughter!”

The words my daughter told Billy everything he needed to know. She was older than the pictures he’d seen, but it was definitely Carol Ann Pennington. Beth’s mom!

Before he even had time to process this new development, Carolyn let out a loud “uh-oh,” diverting everyone’s attention. Billy turned to see Kerry Rutherford pointing a gun at them. Carolyn was secured in his other arm. She was collateral.

“You’re behind this?” LaRoche asked Rutherford.

“I don’t think you heard me earlier, Senator. What was done here was heroic and courageous. It was about sacrificing for the greater good, something you’d know nothing about. Leaving this world in a better place than we got it. That is what Operation Anesthesia was about.”

Naqui hung his head. “It’s over, Kerry.”

Rutherford’s eyes flamed. “Operation Anesthesia might be over, but fighting for the greater good will never be over. Until we get to a day when we won’t have to bury any more patriots, like those courageous men who were doing their job in Beirut, this will not be over. Until no more Greg Ponson’s die in your arms, Dash, this will not be over.”

“Put the gun down,” LaRoche said, practically begging.

Rutherford looked at him with venom. “You are responsible for this, not me, Senator.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about, but please put the gun down and we can discuss your concerns.”

“Talk? That’s all you want to do in government. Do you know how many 9/11s were averted because of Operation Anesthesia? And all you politicians do is cut my legs out while I’m trying to protect you.”

He fired his gun twice, startling everyone. He shot a bullet into each of LaRoche’s legs. Now he was symbolically cutting out his legs. LaRoche fell to the ground and screamed like a baby.

By the time the second shot shattered LaRoche’s kneecap, Chuck was already bull-rushing Rutherford. He was going to save his daughter and ask questions later. Rutherford saw him out of the corner of his eye and raised the gun. He was going to shoot Chuck!

That’s when Beth, conjuring the last breaths left in her destroyed lungs, somehow found the strength to rise to her feet and ran at Rutherford shouting, “No!”

He turned and fired a panic shot. It hit Beth directly in the chest and she fell to the ground. Dana screamed, “Oh my God—Beth—no!”

Carolyn ran to the safety of her father. But Billy saw Chuck’s rage and pulled Carolyn away from him. He hid her head in his sweatshirt, away from what he didn’t want her to witness. Her father was about to kill the U.S. Director of National Intelligence!

Rutherford looked at Naqui, saluted, and then belted out, “I proudly sacrifice my own life for the greater good.”

Naqui didn’t look so sure.

Before Chuck could fill him with bullets, Sonny Corleone at the tollbooth style, Rutherford stuck his pistol in his own mouth and pulled the trigger.

Chapter 99

Rutherford’s body hadn’t even hit the floor, and Chuck’s attention was already on Beth. He pointed his gun at Naqui and reiterated, “She dies, you die.”

Naqui’s facial expression said he didn’t like his odds. He ripped open her shirt to find nothing but blood. He worked like his life was on the line, which it was. But he was a doctor, and despite what many of his colleagues often thought, they were not miracle workers.

Chuck fought back tears, urging, “C’mon, Beth, stay with us.”

Her eyes remained lucid and clear. She was still “with us,” but barely. She looked at Billy and smiled. He smiled back at his kindred in pain. She then pushed Naqui away. Despite Chuck’s threats, he honored her wishes. They both knew the score.

Naqui looked helplessly at her. “Do you want any pain medication?” he asked.

She shook her head. “No, pain means I’m still alive.”

Her attention turned to Carolyn. Beth was running out of sand in her hourglass, but she was still focused on the future—Carolyn’s future. She looked deep into Carolyn’s scared eyes and urged her to her side. Beth struggled to a sitting position, while Carolyn sat pretzel-style beside her on the floor.

Carolyn looked at her with amazement. “Mommy—you got shot.”

Beth nodded her head the best she could between coughs.

“I got shot too—look,” Carolyn said, pulling down the collar of her shirt for Beth to see. She looked how any parent would look if their child was shot—horrified.

“How did that happen?”

“Osama Banana.”

“Are you okay?”

“Aunt Dana was worried about infection, but it’s all better now.”

“Did it hurt?”

“I can’t feel pain.”

Beth forced a comforting smile. “Just checking.” She was likely checking to see if this was all a dream. No such luck.

“Did it hurt when you got shot, Mommy?”

“I never feel pain when I have you around me.” Beth’s breathing weakened. “I don’t have much time, Carolyn, so I need you to listen to me.”

“Why don’t you haff much time?”

She let out a couple weak coughs. “Mommy’s going on a trip. So you need to help take care of Daddy while I’m gone.”

Carolyn nodded, her eyes moistening. “Okay.”

“And I need you to make me another promise.”

“I promise I won’t get on motorcycles with strangers. I’m sorry I made you and Daddy mad at me.”

Billy could tell she had been holding that one in. He couldn’t help but to watch. But Dana couldn’t, burying her head in his sweatshirt.

“I’m not mad at you. I could never be mad at you. I love you and want to keep you safe.”

“Then can I go on motorcycles with strangers?”

“Not if you know what’s good for you, young lady.” Beth struggled a smile to the surface. “You need to promise me you will listen to your father, and Dana and Billy.”

She nodded her head.

“And that you will do your best in school.”

“No more Dracula jokes, I promise.”

“And that you’ll live your life with freedom.”

She didn’t really understand that one, but nodded.

“Then you have one last big job to do, okay?”

Her eyes grew sad, but obeyed, “Okay.”

“When your Daddy or Aunt Dana are sad, it’s your job to make them laugh and feel good. Can you do that for me?”

“That sounds like a fun job.”

Beth stared deep into her daughter’s hazel eyes. She held her gaze as long as possible and then beamed, “I’m so proud of you.”

Carolyn smiled her toothless grin. “So where are you going on your trip, Mommy?”

“I’m going to Sesame Street.”

“Whoa—can I come?”

Beth smiled. “One day. One day we’ll be together again.”

She then struggled to remove the rose necklace that Carolyn had given her at the cabin and hung it around Carolyn’s neck. “It brought me back to you, Carolyn, and one day it will guide you to me.”

Beth exhausted her last fumes of energy. She kissed Carolyn and nodded for Dana to take her from her. Dana took the girl in her arms and looked down at her sister. “You always have to be so dramatic, little sister.”

Beth just smiled back at her, the usual defiance gone. It was the smile of acceptance.

Tears rolled down Dana’s face. “You can’t leave me.”

Beth just continued smiling at her. “Carolyn is in good hands, sis.”

“Can me and Mommy play for five more minutes?” Carolyn asked.

Hearts shattered. There weren’t five minutes left in the hourglass.

“Do you remember when I told you about spirits being in our hearts?” Beth asked Carolyn with the little strength she had left.

“Yes.”

“Well, my spirit will always be in your heart, so we can play every day in your heart. Mrs. B and I play all the time.”

“Can we play Barbies, the tickle game, and watch Slap Shot in my heart?”

Beth smiled a smile that could’ve stood in for the sun on the gloomy day. “I wouldn’t miss it, princess.”

Chuck and Beth then held each other until her last breath. With people as connected as them, words weren’t necessary. Everything was already said. Each already felt what the other felt. They were beyond being soul mates—they were a one-in-two-hundred-million chance of destiny.

In the end, Beth did what she was put on the Earth to do. In the natural state of survival, mothers live to protect their young. Carol Ann sacrificed her life for Beth, and Beth sacrificed hers for Carolyn. And perhaps one day Carolyn would do the same for her child. Maybe not in such a literal or dramatic way, but that is the real sacrifice for the greater good. Not Operation Anesthesia. Billy would have given up his life for the girl, as would Dana, and of course, Chuck. But it wasn’t their job. Nature dictated that it was Beth’s job, and she did it flawlessly.

Mother Nature.

Beth took one last peaceful breath and became one with her daughter.

She was painless.

Epilogue

My name is Billy Harper and you just read my story. A story that takes place from Labor Day to mid-October of last year. I wrote it in third person point of view, which is one of those literary terms I should be more familiar with since I’m now a published author. I did that because, by not directly connecting myself to it, I created a defense shield from the pain associated with it. But during that time, I learned that pain represents life and I should open my heart and embrace it. I didn’t learn that from a self-help guru or a religion—I learned it from a four-year-old girl, who ironically couldn’t feel pain herself.

It’s been just over a year since I crossed paths with the Whitcombs. One year and one week to be exact. And as I sit jotting this down on a pink, cake-stained Barbie birthday napkin at Carolyn’s fifth birthday party, I realize that it will never be the same without Beth. I met Beth Whitcomb on Labor Day of last year and she died before Halloween. Not even two months, but her spirit remains in my heart every day. And if she could’ve been here to witness this party, I think she’d be proud. Proud that her family has carried on, and hoping not to sound cliché, is stronger because of her sacrifice. Although much sadder. And she would be especially proud of how much Carolyn has grown in the past year.

People say she has gotten taller and lost some baby fat in her cheeks. I don’t really see it, probably because I see her almost every day and it’s hard to notice change unless you’re away from someone. Like with my own children. The only physical difference I notice is that she now has two front teeth. But it’s the personal growth on the inside, and that she remains a happy and free child, that I think would make Beth most proud.

And yes, I do still live here in the guest cottage. I’ve debated moving out so everyone can “get on with their lives.” I even openly talked about the possibility of renting an apartment in the city. But over the last year, Carolyn has picked up that great female weapon of dissent—the silent treatment. She didn’t talk to me for a week when I brought up the possibility of leaving, and I couldn’t deal with it. And besides, I realized this is our lives and we are getting on with them.

Carolyn has kept the covenant she made with her mother. But I’m pretty sure she would’ve done the four things Beth made her promise, anyway. She’s always been a great listener, so that one wasn’t a problem. In school, she got all As, or whatever the equivalent is in nursery school, along with rave reviews from her teacher, Ms. Stevens—I’ll get to her later. I’m not sure she understood what her mother meant by “live with freedom,” but to watch her on a daily basis is to know that’s exactly how she lives her life. And the final one—making the sad grownups laugh and feel joy—well, the Healing Angel of Pain has been doing that since the day she was born.

Her past year has been surprisingly that of a normal four-year-old, including the typical dramas and mood swings of that age bracket. Still no wrinkles and still using the sunblock to keep away the ubee rays. We still paint the chicken, catch fireflies, and I read to her at night. She watches old sitcoms on Nickelodeon like Full House and The Cosby Show and thinks they’re current. And while Chuck will never admit it, she’s turning girly right in front of our eyes. Today’s party theme is a “Princess Party” and all she wanted for her birthday was “pretty clothes.”

Living with CIPA will never be normal. It’s day-to-day and just when you think you’ve got it figured out, new challenges spring out of nowhere. Last February, she had an emergency appendectomy after not feeling any of the painful warning signs that a typical child would have the luxury of feeling. But her biggest challenge continues to be her mentality. They say what you learn in your first couple years of life stays with you forever. In Carolyn’s case, she was conditioned to live life with “run through the wall” fearlessness. We remind her over and over again of the dangers, even to the point that it annoys and frustrates her. She’s a good listener, and will momentarily adjust her ways, but she always instinctively reverts back to the fearlessness.

Dana paid to have a swimming pool put in the backyard, hoping to save her joints, while allowing her to be a typical wild child at the same time. We all saw how ravaged André’s body became, and nobody wants that. We also came up with an idea of setting up an organization to support children with CIPA. I even planned to organize a charity walk using the Shoreline Times (I still write my Sunday column, but have given up my Wednesday spot). But Carolyn decided that many of kids she’s met during her numerous check-ups, including ones who suffer from leukemia and diabetes, or her friend Tanya from school, who has cystic fibrosis, needed the money more than CIPA kids. Beth was surely smiling down with pride at that one.

The concept of death and losing her mother is a much more slippery slope. What she grasps is still very much up for debate. I’ve seen how she comprehends high concepts at such a young age, so I’m a little suspicious of the naiveté she shows toward the subject. I think she knows that it makes us feel good that she doesn’t understand, and plays it up for our sake. We’d often go to Beth’s gravesite on the property over the past year. And yes, I understand that it is a little creepy to bury loved ones on your own property as would be done on 18th-century plantations. And any reminders of death and plantations would be better stricken from our memories. Carolyn would bring Sesame Street dolls or her school papers and place them at the edge of the headstone. And if watching that didn’t make you cry, then you probably don’t have tear ducts. She would also say things while watching Sesame Street like, “I think mommy is at Big Bird’s house today—I’ll bet she’s having fun!” Lately she’s been going to the gravesite by herself and I wonder about those conversations.

I look out at the party that’s beginning to fade in the late afternoon of what turned out to be a perfect September day. Some would say the weather was Beth’s work, but I don’t believe that. My grandmother used to say that it always rained on Good Friday because of the crucifixion of Jesus. That might have been true in Western Pennsylvania, but I doubt it rained in the Sahara Desert. But after the events of last year, nothing is off the table in my mind when it comes to concepts like angels and miracles and how they interconnect with science and evolution.

What I do know is that a lot has changed from last year’s party. For starters, I’m not wearing an Elmo suit this year. But also, the guest list has changed. One reason is that we aren’t the most popular folks in New Canaan. I read a poll the other day that said 67% of people, when asked to name the 1996 Olympic bomber, said Richard Jewel. Problem is, he didn’t do it, and the guy who did has been tried and convicted with his guilt undisputed. My point is that I didn’t kidnap her, but the first thing people in this town think of when they hear my name is the kidnapper. So this year’s party is focusing more on friends and family.

One person I notice across the lawn, sneaking an extra piece of cake, is Coach Blake. I reached out to him last winter. There’s something to say about the person who pops into your head during life or death situations. I remember him saying all the time—no pain no gain. And over the past year I’ve learned how very true that is.

Carol Ann, Carolyn’s grandmother, is cleaning up paper plates and scooping them into an oversized plastic garbage can, even though we told her over and over not to worry about it. She moved in with the Kielys after the whole debacle ended. I imagine it’s not easy to assimilate back to the real world after twenty years on another planet. There was talk of suing what remains of Jordan and Naqui’s medical practices, but all that really would’ve done was take money from sick kids. She travels to Connecticut often to see Carolyn and brings her five children—Carolyn’s aunts and uncles that survived the plantation fire. Carolyn is reveling in her new relatives. I’m struggling with the names.

Miss Rose catered the food for the party. She also brought her nine remaining children that were saved by André. Unfortunately, Calvin, Bronson, and André weren’t among them. She opened up a restaurant in her native Montreal. All her remaining kids work there and celebrate each day of their newfound freedom. We took a trip up there last spring. Chuck and Carolyn got some good one-on-one time by going to a couple Montreal Canadiens games. Carolyn also negotiated for a return trip to Les Princesses while we were there. Since I have no recollection of an earlier trip to any such establishment, all I could say on that one is the kid has a great imagination and shouldn’t have to apologize for it.

People not on the guest list include Rutherford, Jordan, Stipe, Naqui, and Osama Banana. Of that group, only Naqui is still alive—Chuck never delivered on his threat.

Whether any justice came out of that gloomy Wednesday morning in Clarksville, Virginia, is up for debate. LaRoche’s political survival instincts were correct, in that the media played the whole thing up like a Waco. Meaning, sure, there were some bad guys and kooks inside, but that was overshadowed in public opinion by the disastrous way the government handled the situation, leading to a lot of body bags, denials, and finger pointing.

The president denied authorizing it. But since his handpicked director of national intelligence, Kerry Rutherford, was shot and killed in the melee, he came off as a typical spineless politician. And in a rare moment in the polarized world of US politics, the other side couldn’t pounce because of LaRoche’s involvement. It was a bipartisan screw up, which I’m sure Beth and Mrs. B were having a hearty chuckle over.

A half-truth came out in the aftermath. It was confirmed that Operation Anesthesia was an organization that kidnapped children afflicted with CIPA to basically be used as a military weapon. It was big news for a couple of news cycles and then eased into a few human-interest stories. Most people didn’t become outraged for a couple reasons. First of all, nobody knows anyone with CIPA, so it was hard to connect it to your own child. That’s when the real outrage occurs. The other, and this is half part in the half-truth, the government, specifically Rutherford and Stipe Security, were never publicly connected to Operation Anesthesia.

I was envious of the final story, as it was better fiction than I’ve ever written. It featured two overly ambitious doctors—Jordan and Naqui—who would train and sell CIPA soldiers to terrorist groups. The media even jumped on the fact that Naqui was Muslim. For the most part, they turned a very extraordinary and cautionary tale into a story that fell right off the front pages.

The government’s so called Waco II screw-up remained the main focus of the investigation and the media outrage. I figure that was the plan from the outset to divert attention from the involvement of a top US intelligence official. Even in death, Rutherford was able to bend the rules “for the greater good.” All the evidence of a Rutherford link had been destroyed, so even if we wanted to go to the mattresses to set the record straight, there is no way we could prove it.

Naqui is currently serving a life sentence, and a controversial one. The controversy is because he’s allowed to continue to do his medical research in prison. I’m actually for this—I think the world will be best served if he finds that elusive cure to Parkinson’s or some other dastardly disease than if we fry him in the electric chair. So perhaps some tiny grain of good might come of all this. He cut a deal for this, and that’s why he never wavered from the “two crazy doctors” story that was presented.

I have agreed to a plea bargain of my own. Not on the kidnapping, I was cleared of that. My plea bargain was unofficial. It was with the corporation of Klein & LaRoche. I agreed not to put my reporter hat on and question the truth of the inquiry of Operation Anesthesia, along with leaving certain things in the rear-view mirror where they belonged (like all the stuff that would’ve been in Sam Spiegel’s article about LaRoche being the real kidnapper—of my children). Spiegel chose not to print the article after his source—me—pulled out at the last minute and threatened to join LaRoche in suing him if printed. And in return I got what I wanted—joint custody of my children. One weekend a month, nightly calls if I desire, and they spend the summer with me. It was a special summer with them living at the barn house in New Canaan, but I must admit they tired me out and I look forward to getting a break when they go back to Washington tomorrow.

Now that I’m a published author—not my political thriller, but my children’s series The Adventures of Peanut Butter & Jelly—I’ve become cooler than their “other dad,” which I’m not above saying makes my ego feel pretty damn good. I added another character named “Painless” to the story, which was inspired by the obvious. She is Peanut Butter and Jelly’s friend who provides special lessons on why the body feels pain, such as why it’s not a good idea to touch the hot stove. High concept stuff like that.

And the three of them became friends in real life, spending most of the summer in the new pool. Carolyn is actually more devastated by the twins leaving than I am. Maddie has become what we in the parent business call “a stinker.” Always spearheading mischief, only to charm her way out of it. Basically a typical seven-year-old and I’ve loved every minute of it.

Anna is Anna. The rock. My biggest fan and biggest critic all wrapped into one. She has the last word on the Peanut Butter & Jelly stories. A gleam in her eye means I nailed it. A dispassionate “it’s okay” means back to the drawing board. When they return to D.C. tomorrow, I’m sure they will spend the next two months as the typical “exploited campaign kids” shown off like prized cattle for the November election. But their “other dad” needs all the help he can get. The incident in Clarksville has not only ruined any presidential chances, but also put him behind in the polls to retain his Senate seat in Pennsylvania. Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy. But the twins are also excited to see their baby brother again, who will turn one on Halloween.

I look around the grounds and spot Chuck. No Big Bird suit this year, but it’s hard to miss the six-six behemoth. I also recognize the attractive woman who is hanging on his every word. Ms. Stevens, Carolyn’s teacher. It’s actually Lindsey Stevens and she and Chuck have built a friendship. No, they aren’t dating. He still has a long way to go before that is even a possibility. She’s not technically a widow, but her boyfriend of six years died in a skiing accident almost two years ago. So they have that in common, and can probably have honest conversations on subjects that would be awkward for the rest of us and we could never relate to anyway. She’s also a huge hockey fan. I think there is a definite possibility down the line. Hope for the future—a reason to get out of bed. But we’ve all learned how fast life can change and try to focus on the now.

Chuck is also chasing some dreams in other areas. He became an assistant coach for the minor league hockey team in Bridgeport, about a half hour east of New Canaan. Maybe he’ll coach the Montreal Canadiens one day. Carolyn is no longer allowed to play, but she’s “working on it.”

On the whole, I guess Chuck has handled Beth’s loss as well as could be expected. He’s often his jovial self during the “on” hours, but a few times, after he’s put Carolyn to bed, I’ve caught him staring off into space with tears streaming down his face. We’re guys so we don’t hug and immediately talk about our feelings. I usually give him a few moments and then make up an excuse to go get a beer at Durazzo’s. And after we sip on beers and talk some sports, we get around to talking about the tough subjects.

I feel a hand on my shoulder and look up to see Dana’s beautiful smile. It warms me inside.

“We pulled it off,” she says with her patented optimism, which has pleasantly returned after a year in which cynicism penetrated her world.

“Thanks to you,” I say.

A devilish grin comes over her face. “What do you say we sneak off to the cottage and you show me your Amish rifle?”

I smile back. I know you’re thinking that after the events of last fall that we realized what was in front of us, leapt into each other’s arms and never let go. But we didn’t. In fact, although it’s completely illogical, at first we went back to our bad habits and defense shields. Dana was devastated by the loss of Beth. Everyone she’s ever loved had left her and it would’ve been understandable if she gave up on the whole hope thing. She was the true abandoned child of the family. It became my job to return the favor, by keeping the torch of hope alive.

The winter was barbarically cold last year, and Dana grew even colder. But we kept up our working relationship, which became more about working and less about wishful thinking when The Adventures of Peanut Butter & Jelly got published. We began a twenty-city book tour this past summer. After a book signing in Seattle on Labor Day, last Monday, and exactly one year after I first wandered into the Whitcomb’s life, everything changed. Since I don’t write romance novels, I’ll spare you the details.

We told Chuck and Carolyn during “movie night” this past Friday. He responded to what we thought was life-altering news by saying, “What took you so long?” Carolyn just scrunched her face in thought—she had no idea how anything was different. Then she called us “silly” and returned to watching Slap Shot.

I take another look at Dana and again see hope for the future. I’m about to take her up on her offer to go hunting with Amish rifle, but she’s whisked away by Evelyn’s drama of the moment. I remain seated and take in what is left of a perfect day. I hear the roar of children in the distance and I smile. I recognize many of those gathered in what I’d describe as a “muddled huddle.” Anna, Maddie, Claudia Kiely, Tanya, who is Carolyn’s friend with cystic fibrosis, and Lil’ Hawk, who is up to no good as usual.

Then out of the mob, a little girl begins running toward me. I recognize the run. It’s the run of fearlessness. It’s a run that’s full of life. It’s Carolyn’s run.

She arrives at my feet, huffing and puffing.

“Out of breath? See, I told you it’s all downhill once you turn five,” I say with a smile.

She dramatically catches her breath, ignoring my attempt at humor. Once she stops hyperventilating, she says, “We’re gonna ride bikes in the coldysack. Wanna come watch us?”

I smile at her. She’s still wearing her pink velvet princess dress, but has added grass stains to it, which will probably make Chuck happy and Dana cringe. Her hair is a creation Dana calls a French braid and Carolyn terms a le French braid. But her most important accessory is the rose necklace that hangs from her neck. A magical heirloom passed on from her mother via Calvin. Many people hang a symbol of their savior around their neck—the one who sacrificed their own life for theirs. In that regard, Carolyn is no different.

Sometimes in life a rare feeling comes over you where you realize a fleeting moment is perfect and you need to capture it in your mind forever. I’m in one of those moments right now and I take a mental snapshot of the special little girl who can’t feel physical pain, yet taught me that I need to feel pain to truly live. And the ironic thing is, when I ended the numbness and exposed my heart to the pain of life once again, I no longer felt pain. Confusing, I know—kind of like life, I guess.

I remain in the peace of the moment and don’t want to move. “I’ll come watch in a little bit—I’m just going to relax for a while, princess,” I say.

Her big hazel eyes turn defiant—like her mother’s. Then she flashes me a big toothy grin and reaches out her hand to grab onto. “Stick together, remember?”

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Thank you so much for reading Painless! If you would like to find out more about Painless or myself, please go to www.derekciccone.com. Email: derekbkclb@yahoo.com.

And would love your support and/or feedback at the Painless Facebook fan page: Derek Ciccone Book Club.

One last note: Congenital Insensitivity to Pain with Anhidrosis (CIPA) is a real ailment. Less than 100 cases are currently known in the United States.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Chapter 79

Chapter 80

Chapter 81

Chapter 82

Chapter 83

Chapter 84

Chapter 85

Chapter 86

Chapter 87

Chapter 88

Chapter 89

Chapter 90

Chapter 91

Chapter 92

Chapter 93

Chapter 94

Chapter 95

Chapter 96

Chapter 97

Chapter 98

Chapter 99

Epilogue