Painless (5 page)

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.