Painless (42 page)

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.