Chapter Twenty-Four
Sarah will arrive soon,” Paul said as we sat alone in the office building basement. “Communications are down, but when I talked with her earlier she promised to be here around seven with decent food.”
A half hour later, if I knew what to do, I would have volunteered to disarm the alarms myself. My foot and ankle showed the start of discoloration. The only cooling pack Paul found in a lab first aid box covered a very small section of the injury. My chest seared each time I took in a deep breath or tried to shift on the chair.
Aware that Peterson’s people could be listening to our conversation, we talked about the day’s happenings with me skirting the prior night’s security breach and the arrivals of Dr. Frances and Hajar. While Paul reported news of the day’s harvest, I forced myself to think beyond my injuries. His serious recital of acres and bushels meant nothing when I wanted to know what was happening in Lao’s office.
Another half hour passed without Sarah. My head hurt, or maybe the pain was spread throughout my body and I chose to focus on the egg forming at the back of my skull. “Paul, I need to lie down,” I said when the discomfort settled into a significant snare drum beat between my head and my toes. “Can you help me move?”
“Join your hands and put them around my neck.” Paul bent toward me, wrapped his arms around my back, and helped me stand. “Let go, but lean on me.” I listened, trusting his strength and wisdom. “No weight on that foot.”
I hobbled next to him to an empty cot Peterson’s people had placed in a darkened office. Easing into its wobbly bedding proved more difficult. Paul helped me settle then left and returned with a book and towel to elevate my foot.
“Sarah’s not coming,” I said. “We’re truly prisoners. Of war, Peterson claimed.”
“He’s dangerous, and that isn’t my amateur opinion.”
“I don’t think it’s a coincidence that he is holding David and us captive.”
“You could be right.” Paul carefully pushed one hand through my hair, shook his head, his eyebrows drawn close together. “How’s your head? Could be a concussion.”
“I’m kind of worried about that. I feel nauseated, but my vision’s okay.”
“You should try to sleep.”
“I’d rather you brought in a chair and talked with me.”
Paul got down on his knees, a life of physical activity making the action still possible for a man his age. He hauled a folding chair out from under the cot and opened it. Even with the natural thickening of age, he still looked tall and lean, particularly to someone lying on her side on a low surface. “Assholes said they’d have someone down here to look at you over an hour ago. I’ll try the communication system again,” he grumbled.
As he walked out of sight, the room seemed to shrink. I wondered if Peterson would hesitate to kill two civilians while commanding his self-made war. I had experienced starvation, assault, loss, but never had I been a prisoner. In Peterson’s cat-and-mouse games, Paul and I were small animals running in a stainless steel cage. I pressed my wristband and bit my lip to hold back tears as the screen remained dark.
“Don’t think too much,” Paul said as he walked back into the room. “They’re blocking our systems. The one advantage we have is that everyone in the residence knows exactly where we are.” He didn’t sit down, instead folded up the chair.
“I’m going to move the other cot in here for the night if you don’t mind. Sarah and I tried to sleep that way last night.” He left again, the light dimming even more.
In the near dark, Paul returned. He dropped blankets and a pillow near me and set up his cot. The space, designed as a small office, accommodated the two cots with barely enough room to stand.
“Paul, I’m sorry, but before we settle, could you help me get to the bathroom?” Independent to the bone, I floundered to get up without his assistance, but Paul lifted the bedding and had me on my feet as if I were a grandchild. “Thanks, I’m sorry about all of this.”
“Nothing to be sorry about. Best we get moving before the lights go out,” he said close to my ear. “Didn’t David tell me you get spooked by the dark?”
“I’m embarrassed to admit it.” Both feet on the floor, I exhaled. “I may as well tell you that if they shut down the air circulation system, I’ll get claustrophobic, too.” His strong arms steadied me.
“I found this cane in a workstation.” Paul slipped the curved wooden head into my hand. “Lean on me and see if it helps.”
“There was a visiting geologist here last year who had a broken foot. Thank God he left this,” I said as I embraced the satisfying feel of a potential weapon. I left the bathroom door open for light as I awkwardly used the toilet and then washed up. Leaning against a hallway wall, I waited for Paul to have time in the washroom. The lights continued dimming. My new cane displayed bands of illuminating material.
Keeping my action out of sight of monitors while I waited for Paul, I pressed my wristband. An emergency code appeared and then faded. I rapped near the bathroom door with the cane.
“Give me a minute,” Paul answered. Leaning against the wall, I turned my wrist only enough to see if the code would return. When the code flashed, I felt connected to the outside world. “Do you need to get back in here?” he asked as he emerged.
“Sorry,” I said. “I’m jumpy.” He put an arm around my waist and I twisted closer than necessary in order to give him view of my band’s screen.
“Move back, Annie, or I’ll mash your other foot,” Paul growled, but nodded slightly as he directed us back to the room with two cots. “You could turn the lights up, you knuckleheads,” he said to unseen monitors. We moved cautiously past office furniture. Paul picked up a water bottle from one desk.
Settling in the cot’s mesh sling in the dark, bruises stiffening, was even more difficult this time. I swallowed a small yelp while I rolled into the most bearable position. Paul elevated my foot, drew up the blanket. The lights went out. “Let’s put your cane where you can see it.” He turned the light strip upward.
In the blackened space I listened to Paul settle himself, saw the faint shape of my father-in-law’s head on a pillow near mine. Under my blanket I pressed at my communication band, heard nothing. Paul’s hand touched mine as I lifted the blanket, hoping for the tiny brightness of lit letters.
“Sarah has always prayed in the dark. Says she finds peace doing that.” Paul’s hand gently held mine. “Me, I find I can walk the fields behind my closed eyelids and really see what needs to be done in the morning. Without all the visuals and voices, it’s like the soil can show itself.” His calloused fingers made a small dome above my palm. “What are you thinking about, Annie?”
“David.” I worried about the children, about Sarah, about what Peterson might do in the morning, but David held my thoughts. “I wonder where he is, how he is.”
“Let’s hope he’s as comfortable as we are. If he was here, nobody could hold him back from dealing with Peterson.”
“I keep thinking about how much pain he felt when they removed his tracking chip and how easy infection might start in the jungle.” Tears threatened. I swallowed. We were both quiet. “I’m not giving up hope that he will come back. But I know life will go on if he doesn’t return and that’s what scares the hell out of me.”
I heard people speak of entering a zombie-like state when they experienced losing a loved one. I wasn’t that lucky when my first husband passed and have memories of sitting on the floor through long nights, holding his beloved navy sweater as if it could warm my cold arms. I remember feeling like part of my future was thrown into history. When I arrived at Ashwood, I was a person almost without emotion—more of an automaton, not a zombie.
Paul’s voice, soft as the fur on a puppy’s head and thick as spring syrup, whispered across the distance. “How bad is that ankle?”
His question, asked with such emotion, caught me by surprise. “Probably as bad as yours when you slipped off the porch. Not that I wou
ldn’t appreciate ice and a few aspirin, but this isn’t the absolute worst pain I’ve felt.”
“What would that be?” Emotion back in control, I thought Paul might be pushing conversation as a distraction.
Do I tell my father-in-law about the awful trauma of long-ago sexual assault or do I steer to more commonly understood injuries? “David told you about how I had ribs broken in that transport explosion. This chest bruise is kind of like that. It hurts when I move or breathe.”
“When David was a little boy, he got too close to the wrong side of a cow that was in for milking. I saw her hoof go up and grabbed for the kid.” Paul made a small snorting sound. “Took one to the side of my neck. Thought I was going die there. That was pain.”
“Well, we could talk about giving birth, if you want to swap pain stories.”
He laughed, short and not like the great guffaws Paul often let roll. “You women always drag out childbirth. Got to say I wouldn’t want to try it.”
“I wonder what the kids are doing.” I peeked at my communication band again, saw the number eight show, then disappear. Sarah would be putting the children to bed. Phoebe would be nervous, suspicious about my absence. Noah and John might be frightened. And Andrew might be worried about losing this home if another parent disappeared.
“Sometimes it helps Sarah relax if I hum.” Paul cleared his throat. “Would you like that?”
The thought made me smile. Paul’s choice of songs might include country-westerns from thirty years earlier or random melodies drawn from worship services. I’d heard him calm the kids, quiet himself while he was working on equipment, fill the air as he walked a field. Gently I squeezed his hand, then extracted mine to be able to shift on the cot. “If you’d like to hum, go ahead.”
He pulled his hand back across the narrow space between us, rolled to his back, and cleared his throat. I couldn’t name the song he butchered, but his bass tones did have a comforting effect.
I rested one hand over the communication band on my other wrist, not mentioning the pulses that signified Lao’s people were trying to break through the firewall installed by the Peterson crew. Four quick pulses followed by a long vibration, an emergency code queried if I was safe. Under the cover, I pressed the answer key three times, three quick jabs, signaling that we needed help.
Lights came on in the outer hall.
“Food or water for either of you?” The young man who had carried me down the stairs appeared with a jug of water and sandwiches. “We won’t be down again until after the morning broadcast.”
We blinked at him, vulnerable as fish out of water, stranded on our cots.
“I gotta have your wristband, General Manager Hartford.” He approached my side. “And the captain wants you in separate rooms.” He extended a hand toward me. I worked at the band’s latch. One part of his mission complete, he turned to Paul. “I’ll move your things, sir.”
“I can’t leave my daughter-in-law alone. She requires medical attention. That ankle means she can’t get up on her own.” Paul rolled to his side, then stood easily.
Our visitor looked puzzled at Paul’s protest. He lifted the blanket up over my feet, saw the swelling.
“My chest is bothering me more,” I volunteered. “Hurts to move, even hurts when I breathe.”
“I’ll see what I can do.” He dropped the blanket. “Let me help you up for your meal.”
I waved him away. “I ate a large dinner with my children.”
“You have to eat.” He bent down, his arms extended as if to scoop me up. “The lights are going off after I leave, so this is your opportunity.”
Paul approached, stood close to the man’s side. “Leave her be. Neither of us needs food or water right now.”
Our captor’s representative straightened. “I can’t take that upstairs with me. Captain Peterson gave very clear directions that you were to eat.”
“Remind the captain that he’s on a farm,” Paul said, “and we’re fond of that old expression that you can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make it drink.”
“You’ll sleep better if you eat at least a few bites.” The young man delivered these words with a stillness that suggested caution.
“Take the tray and get out of here.” Paul picked up the tray, shoved it into the guard’s chest.
Biceps showing through snug fabric, he accepted the tray, then put it down on a work surface. “I have to relocate one of you, sir. Perhaps we should help General Manager Hartford to the restroom and move the cots.”
“Not going to happen.” Paul folded his arms over his chest, stood close to the guard. “My daughter-in-law needs medical care and assistance. She could have a concussion from cracking her head on that conference table. Medical protocol says observation for the first twelve hours.” He swayed onto his heels. “I’m not medically trained, but I’ve cared for a few guys with concussions in my days.”
“Paul, we can’t send this soldier upstairs with none of his mission accomplished.” I propped myself up as far as possible. “A helping hand to the restroom is fine. But Paul is right that I need someone close tonight. I’m a bit nauseated and dizzy. If you move that cot, my father-in-law will drag it back after you leave.”
I accepted the strength of the guard’s arm to stand up, then hobbled at his side to the bathroom. Once I was finished, I splashed water onto my face and looked into the mirror as I dried my hands. Except for a pale face, all looked normal from the neck up. I patted my head to feel the bump, pulled down my T-shirt to inspect the ugly abrasion and bruising below my breastbone. If we got out of here, I wanted revenge. I opened the door.
Paul and the guard stood talking about South Dakota, the young man speaking animatedly about his parents’ place near Brookings and his days at South Dakota State University before he joined the Marines.
“I’ll let you help her back while I use the facilities,” Paul said. He made an odd hand motion, like smoothing a blanket over a child, that the guard could not see. I took it to mean I should fuss, delay my helper.
The jolt of pain accompanying a purposeful stumble nearly brought me to my knees. “Holy crap,” I muttered, now fully aware that the ankle bone was connected to a lot of other bones and tendons and nerves and muscles. My hand tightened on the guard’s arm. He held steady, waited until I could take another step.
“No pain meds down here?” He looked toward the empty lab. “I thought labs always had good first aid kits.”
“That’s where we found the small cold pack. My father-in-law raided the pain meds last night for his arthritis.” We took a few more steps, me holding onto his arm as if I was an old woman walking on ice. “I’m worried about the pain when I breathe.” I touched my shirt above the bruise, “This needs more attention than my ankle.”
With strong but gentle hands, the young man helped me lower myself back to the cot. He moved the pillow, grabbed Paul’s blanket, and rolled it to fill the space to keep my foot elevated.
“I’ll report on that bruise upstairs, ma’am. I think it is more painful than physically threatening, but I’m sure it makes moving uncomfortable.”
“If you’d like to feel my head, Paul is right that I hit it hard against the table.” I closed my eyes. “Maybe that’s why I feel so disoriented.” The lie slipped out easily. “I didn’t even think of concussion.”
“You didn’t tell me you were disoriented.” Paul waited at the door. “I’m not leaving this room.” He wiped his hands down his pants leg. “Changed my mind and had one of those sandwiches. Heavy on the mayo.”
Not happy, the guard carried the tray with him. Paul sat on the edge of his cot and the lights went off. Anxiety tweaked my mind as I lost sight of him.
“Want me to start humming again?” Paul asked with a teasing tone.
“No, thanks.” I closed my eyes against the darkness. Sarah would go silent at such times and we knew she dug into her deep spiritual belief for comfort. Because her faith was so organic, we gave her free rein to share wit
h our kids, even asked her to lead the state-mandated weekly spiritual sessions now and then. But rock-solid belief in God was a part of Sarah’s natural goodness. My own spirituality shattered during the depression and redeveloped in a fractured set of beliefs that teetered between knowing that God existed and wondering why God treated people so inhumanely.
In the darkness, with fear surpassing pain, I remembered Sarah’s simple prayers for strength, for patience, for wisdom. This basement space could withstand tornados, operate independently of the estate power grid, maintain structural integrity under insane conditions. Paul and I would not escape. So I prayed for the safety of my children and my husband. I tacked on one for Paul and me to find strength to outlast Peterson’s siege. And under those prayers for help, I remembered to add words of thanksgiving for all David and I had built in these Ashwood years.
Paul thrashed around on his side of the room, the creaking of his cot breaking my meditation. The smell of warm ham added to the odors of two bodies in a space never ventilated for sleeping adults. I thought the sandwich had passed through Paul’s system quickly, wondered if they fed him tainted meat.
“Sorry, Annie,” Paul whispered. I sensed him leaning across the space between our cots. “When I tucked that sandwich down my pants I didn’t think ahead to where I’d put it after that guy left. I think it’s laced with something. We’ll have it tested when we get out of here.”
“You’re a wonderful optimist,” I whispered back.
From the sounds I knew Paul was climbing out of his cot. “So are you, Annie my dear, so are you. I got to find someplace to stash this thing.” He stood. “Be brave,” he said just inches from my head. “I’ll be back in a minute. If I don’t come back, send out the dogs.”
For an older man, Paul moved with impressive silence through the white noise now filling the lower level. I fought anxiety by counting backwards from one thousand.
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