Azaleas Don't Bloom Here

by Frank Klus

“Look,” Foote said, “this is a public street. They can’t just shoot us, and they don’t know who we are. The guards are trained to watch, and to make sure no one gets too nosy.”

  “But Wrenn got ambushed.”

  “I was alone, and got distracted,” Wrenn said.

  “Nevertheless, Paulie has a point. We should get out of here before someone starts questioning us,” Foote said.

  Armstrong, Ray, Cassandra, Sean, Jimmy the Fox, Foote, and Wrenn were in a rented room near Hell House, studying a map of the house and neighborhood. It gave them a good idea where all the security was, but they didn’t know anything about what was going on inside Hell House; nor could they even be sure this was where they were keeping Eugene.

  “We need to get inside the house,” Chad said.

  “How are we going to do that with all the security?” Cassandra asked.

  “Hon, he means a bug or camera,” Ray said. Cassandra made a face.

  “It’s our eyes and ears,” Chad said, smiling.

  “But we won’t be able to get a camera in there,” Wrenn said.

  “Going to be a bitch just getting a bug in there,” Foote said.

  Then Armstrong had an idea. “We can’t just waltz in there and plant a microphone. We can’t get them to accept a package with a built in listening device. They’re clearly not going to accept unknown packages. That leaves only one other option—plant a bug in a back window. My guess is that’s where the action is going to be.”

  “You’re going to need a high amplification device with very large signal to noise,” the Fox said.

  “What do you have in mind?” Ray asked.

  “Old NSA super tiny mic; looks like a small insect; great gain; superb s/n; Model AN FQR1361. I can get it for around two grand.”

  “That’s a lot of money, Ray,” Armstrong said.

  “We have the money,” Cassandra said.

  Ray looked at her askance.

  “Please, Ray. We have the money, and it’s Gene in there. If I didn’t….” Her voice trailed off and she looked down.

  Ray looked over to Armstrong. “We have the money.”

  “Okay, let’s say we have the bug. Now, how do we get it on the window?”

  They all studied the map. Some ideas were workable, but carried risks too great for Chad Armstrong. Other ideas wouldn’t work at all. They studied all night and into the wee hours of the morning, when Foote seemed to have the best idea.

  “Look, here,” he said. “This is their weakest point. There!” pointing to the side of the house. “The two guys in the back can’t see there. The guy in the tree on the other side of the house is blocked from view. The guys on the other side of the street can only see the back end of the yard. That leaves only the guy in the other tree. We could shoot him with a high-powered rifle far enough away so as to not be heard; hop the fence to the back side window; plant the bug, and high-tail it out of there.”

  “What if there is another guard on the ground?” Cassandra asked. “We need to know.”

  “That’s a problem,” Armstrong said. “We can only do this once. If we’re found out, that’ll be the end of us; and for your friend.” Armstrong was staring at Ray and Cassandra. “I think the risk is too great. If we’re discovered putting the bug on the window, and assuming we can still get out, they’ll take off the bug, put extra security around the back; or worse, move Eugene—assuming he’s in there—somewhere else.”

  “We have another problem too,” Wrenn said. “If we plant the bug without them seeing us, but they discover it later—”

  “Which they will,” Ray said.

  “Then they’ll redouble the security anyway,” answered Wrenn.

  “You’re both right,” Armstrong admitted. “Furthermore, when they discover the dead guy in the tree, they’ll know something is up. I believe we’re going to have to force our way in; take out all the guards, and break in. Yet we still have to do it quickly or the whole goddamn brigade of ‘em will be down on us.”

  “Wait a minute!” Jimmy the Fox said. “I just thought of something. Holy Christ, it just might work.”

  The others just looked at him, waiting to hear the Fox’s big idea.

  “When I put the tracker on Dennis’s truck the other night I noticed the cap he wears sitting in the passenger seat. I didn’t think anything of it at the time, but when you guys talked about having to put a bug on the window because—”

  “Just tell us your idea,” Armstrong said.

  “Oh, sorry. What if we put a bug in his cap? He must go in there because he’s got all that info that Daniel found.”

  “It would be a good idea, except that he only went there once,” Ray said. “We’ve been tracking him since you put the tracker on, and apparently he gets information relayed to him by phone to his office.” The men groaned.

  “Furthermore, how soon would it be before the bug was discovered?” Foote repeated .

  They discussed the original idea of forced entry. Armstrong said it was the only viable way in. The others nodded in agreement.

  “Let’s get some sleep and develop a plan in the morning,” Chad said.

  The next morning the only discussion that took place was that any operation was likely to produce casualties, and with so many unknowns Armstrong was ready to cancel everything.

  The team was feeling down when Ray came rushing into the room, grinning. “I just heard from Daniel. He found all the details about Hell House: security configurations, a clinic, and confirmation that Eugene is in there. They set up the operations in the basement. That’s where they’re working on Eugene. They call it Operation Breakdown. The plans and maps are printing out now.”

  “Well,” Armstrong said, “that certainly changes things. Let’s get some chow and tackle this bad boy. We’ll call it ‘Operation Rescue’.”

  Eugene was in the terrible closet. Sleep would come in waves, and the ephedrine, still in his system, made sleep difficult. He reeked of urine and feces, and ached all over as he contemplated his dilemma. I’m in Fernando’s camp. They won’t break me. I won’t let them. Maybe I could fool them into thinking they had so they’d let me go. Could it work?

  The door opened and Hurd dragged him out. The light was bright, and Eugene had to cover his eyes before coming out. Eugene was escorted by Hurd and the upstairs guard to the gurney.

  They carried him onto it, and he helplessly watched the guards strap him down. Dr. Frankenstein (Eugene’s name for Sistrunk) came over to him, talking in that saccharine way; so eerie, yet cruel.

  “You’ve done very well, Eugene; so well that we can now proceed to the next step in your cure.” He gave Eugene an injection that made him feel really queer. He was sort of woozy, but he didn’t feel like he’d lose consciousness.

  Then Dr. Sistrunk disappeared and came from the back room a few minutes later with a helmet that had electrodes on it.

  “What is this for?” Eugene asked; not sure if he expected an answer or a swat.

  “It is to help you, young man.”

  An assistant he hadn’t seen before placed the helmet securely on Eugene’s head, and then plugged it into a control panel. Then he flipped a switch, and some lights came on. Eugene felt a jolt of electricity in his head, and for a second, thought they were giving him some sort of shock therapy. He made a face and grunted, and then realized this electrical feeling was too mild to be shock therapy.

  “Oh, you make such a fuss, Eugene. I’ll turn down the voltage a little if you are too uncomfortable.” Dr. Sistrunk did so, and Eugene felt a little better, but he could hear an irritating hum, and he felt a muffled feeling like he just swallowed a whole bottle of aspirin.

  Then the lab assistant went into to the back room and came back with goggles in his hand. He put them on Eugene, fully covering his eyes. At first, he saw nothing; just blackness. Then, there was a kaleidoscope of color swirling around. The colors were constantly changing.

  “Describe the colors you see to me,” Sistrunk said.

>   “I see a lot of blues, and browns, and reds, and greens.”

  “Do the colors appear dark or light?”

  “Slightly on the dark side, I think.” The doctor flipped another switch and adjusted a dial.

  “Now, Eugene, I’m going to ask you a few questions that you should have no trouble answering. It is important that you give me a truthful answer, and not the answer you may think I want to hear. So long as you do this, Eugene, you will not be punished. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, doctor.”

  “Good, good. Now here is the first question: Are you on a table?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you want to go home?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do the colors you are looking at appear brighter or darker than they were?”

  “Brighter.”

  “Good, excellent. You’re doing just fine now. Now, tell me your true feelings about Professor Herald Zinney.”

  “He’s a terrific person.”

  “What makes him so terrific, Eugene?”

  “He teaches that one should always seek truth.”

  “Is there something more?”

  “He says seeking truth is noble, and finding it is dangerous.”

  “How so?”

  “Because truth is something you can only approach; get closer to, but is always just out of reach.”

  “So, he doesn’t believe in any absolute truths?”

  “No, he doesn’t.”

  “You mean he doesn’t believe one plus one equals two?”

  “No, that’s not what I mean. I mean philosophical truths.”

  “So he does believe in mathematical certainties.”

  “Yes. At least, I believe so.”

  “So, you’re uncertain?”

  “I don’t know…I feel funny….”

  “You are confused, are you not?”

  “I…I’m not sure. I feel funny.”

  “What are the colors doing now? Are they brighter or darker?”

  “About the same.”

  “Good, excellent. We’re making good progress today. Now, suppose I say that one can’t believe in certainty and uncertainty at the same time. Does this make sense to you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. I have no doubt it would make sense to any right-thinking man. Would you agree?”

  “Yes, doctor.”

  “Good, good. Now, in the case of Harold Zinney—he says on the one hand there are no absolute truths; on the other hand, there are absolute truths, as you’ve already admitted. Are we in agreement here?”

  “I feel bad, doctor…I just don’t feel clear about this.”

  “Did you understand what I just asked, Eugene?”

  “I…I’m not sure.”

  “You aren’t sure because you’re fighting me. Your mind knows that Zinney is a liar, but you can’t come to terms with it. Did you notice your brain spectrum got darker when you began fighting me?”

  “Yes, doctor. I’m trying to be truthful.”

  “Not hard enough, Eugene. Now tell me the truth. How can he say you can’t discover truth except when you have to admit you can? If there are no truths, then there are no mathematical certainties either. Am I correct?”

  “Yes, you are correct.”

  Dr. Sistrunk frowned.

  “Do you now believe Professor Zinney is a fraud?”

  “Yes,” Eugene said.

  Dr. Sistrunk frowned again, and then he glanced over to the assistant.

  “Do you believe you’re better now?”

  “Yes. I’m much better. You opened my eyes.”

  Dr. Sistrunk shut the machine off, and then took off the goggles and helmet. He was visibly upset now.

  “Were the colors dark or light, Mr. Sulke?”

  “I…I don’t remember.”

  Sistrunk motioned to Hurd. “You are a liar, Mr. Sulke, and you know very well those colors nearly went black. Liars are punished, Mr. Sulke.” Turning to Hurd, “Throw him back in his closet.”

  As Hurd unstrapped him and began leading him to the closet, Sistrunk called over to him. “I had prepared a nice meal for you. Guess I’ll eat it myself.”

  Eugene was in the closet for a few hours. He was angry and bitter. What do they want? What do they expect from me? Resisting them got me slapped and punched, but telling them what they wanted to hear got me the same treatment. I just don’t understand. What I must focus on is getting out of here. I can’t run when they unstrap me, but what if I can get the gun away from Hurd? With a gun I can force my way out of here to freedom; but how am I going to do that? Hurd keeps it holstered, and the odds that I can distract him while lifting the gun are pretty slim. It will certainly get me beaten again.

  Perhaps, if I can force him to turn over the gun to me…yeah, that’s it. If I can get one of those scalpels out of the cabinet…but what if it’s locked? I don’t actually know. If I could only get something I can use as a weapon…. Frankenstein looks easy to grab hold of. I could threaten to kill him; force Hurd and the upstairs guy to turn over their guns to me. It could work. I’ll have to be more focused on what Hurd and the doctor do all the time: check for weaknesses, get to know their patterns. I’d also have to gain their confidence; demonstrate to them that I could be trusted. It may take a while, but I know I could hold out, especially if I could keep from being beaten.

  Suddenly the overhead light came on, and Hurd came to get him. He responded with a little more alacrity this time so Hurd wouldn’t feel the need to drag him to the chair or gurney or whatever that thing was called. Nevertheless, he secured him to the hideous chair by its straps. Then Hurd strapped his feet in too.

  “Alisha,” Sistrunk said. “Get our sheers and shaver, and cut off Sulke’s hair.”

  She fetched them from the bottom shelf of the cabinet. Eugene noticed she didn’t need a key to open it. He tried to stay focused on what everyone was doing. Hurd was to the left of him, at parade rest; the doctor went in the other room; and Alisha was playing her barber role. Once this was finished she put the sheers back in the cabinet. She didn’t lock it, and then she went into the other room. Eugene could hear her talking with the doctor, and then Sistrunk came out with the dreaded helmet, but not the goggles. Alisha put the helmet on him, but this time it was hooked up to a different machine; a box he never saw before. A cable connected between the box and the opened laptop.

  “Are you familiar with an fMRI, Mr. Sulke?” said Sistrunk.

  Eugene indicated so.

  “This is a bit more advanced. With this scan we can decipher just how your brain sorts information. Once completed, we can begin curing you.”

  The doctor turned the machine on, and Eugene could see some lights flicker and come on. There was a soft humming noise, and Eugene felt a slight tingling sensation from under the helmet. It didn’t hurt, and after a few minutes he barely noticed it.

  “This will tell us a lot about how your mind works. Now, I’m going to ask you a few questions, and I want you to both say and think about the answer. You must keep thinking about the answer until I ask you another question. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, doctor.”

  “Don’t try to fight me because I’ll know, and it will only prolong your treatment.”

  “I understand.”

  “How much is ten times ten?”

  “100.”

  “Good! Now picture that equation in your mind.”

  Sistrunk asked about a dozen more math questions, progressively harder to solve. By the last question Eugene was unsure of the answer, and waited a couple of minutes before providing the wrong answer.

  The questions now turned to social issues. “Mr. Sulke, what is your favorite thing to do outside of work?”

  Eugene thought about the answer. “I like to watch a little TV sometimes; other times I like to read; maybe listen to a little music.”

  After reminding Eugene to keep that thought in his head, the doctor asked several more questions like it. Following these wer
e questions about his boss, co-workers, and casual friends; then of family and relatives.

  Sistrunk then began asking questions he didn’t know the answers to—questions about work. “I want to know how your brain handles logic,” Sistrunk said.

  The grilling went on for hours, and then stopped. The helmet was taken off, and his straps were released. He was given an opportunity to stretch, and then get something to eat. Hurd stayed close to him at all times, so there was no opportunity to steal a scalpel from the cabinet, and initiate his escape. He realized that it may be several more days before he could create the trust that he could use to carry out his plan.

  Eugene had no breakfast, so he was given an extra-large meal, and was allowed about a half hour to consume it. He was brought back to the interrogation chair, and strapped in it—feet and arms. Sistrunk spent the whole time at the computer desk printing something out, and then studying the results.

  Eugene heard footsteps coming down the steps again, and then Sistrunk spoke up.

  “Ahh, Peter, good, good; right on time.” A man Eugene saw at the metal table or gurney earlier, entered. He was more of a boy than a man; not older than twenty. He looked like he might be a soldier because of his lean and muscular build. He marched right over to the desk the stenographer used—he was gone now. Sistrunk came over and shook his hand, and then showed him something. “Peter, here is his chart.”

  Peter studied it a while, and then carried it over to Eugene. Alisha then came from the back room carrying a marker. She handed it to Peter, who began drawing on Eugene’s naked scalp.

  Eugene flinched. “What are you doing?”

  “Please don’t move a muscle,” Peter said. “This is very sensitive work. I am attempting to sketch all the different parts of your brain on your head.”

  The drawing went on for about an hour. Eugene could feel the marking pen all over his scalp. Peter would draw some, and then stop to examine the paper; then he would continue. The act of drawing on Eugene’s head caused him to flinch repeatedly, always drawing a rebuke.

  “Please stop moving around,” Peter said.

  “Sorry.”

  “Hold still,” Hurd said.