Painless (22 page)

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!”