Reclamation

by Gregory L. Beam

  Val squints in confusion, then laughs when she realizes that John is referring to the textbook. “I’m stopping by the coffee shop after this to do some studying,” she says, with a hint of a drawl, glossed over by her impeccable articulation.

  “Sounds like fun.”

  “I never should have taken the class. It’s… well, I figured a course on Psychology, we would be talking about behavior and disorders, but this is all about neurons and brain regions and synaptic nodules. It’s a lot more technical than I expected it to be.” She rolls her eyes and sighs, a one-two combo that John will come to know well in the following decades. “It’s my own fault for not reading the course description more carefully, I suppose.”

  “Maybe I could help you,” John says. “I’m premed.”

  Val smiles, blushing slightly.

  Two hours later, they’re sipping lattés in the café at the student center, John going over the finer points of serotonin re-uptake.

  “You can’t overestimate the importance of reward mechanisms to our behavior. It affects mental health, performance, pretty much everything.”

  “You’ve explained more to me in ten minutes,” says Val, “than this professor has all semester.”

  John laughs. “Occupational hazard. When you’re working with this material all day, every day, it’s easy to forget how opaque it can look to someone who’s new to it.”

  Val smiles. She likes the way he talks, expressing himself both fully and concisely, a rare combination even in the rarefied sphere of a top-tier liberal arts college.

  “I’m sure I could be doing better,” she says, “but I kind of checked out when the professor said that consciousness is irrelevant. He actually said—wait, I wrote this down…” she flips through her notes “… here it is: ‘Scientists aren’t interested in consciousness. If you want to talk about consciousness, head over to Papazian Hall and take a Philosophy course.’”

  John laughs. “That’s the old Procrustean instinct at work.”

  Her face scrunches up. “Procrustean?”

  “Procrustes was this blacksmith in Greek mythology who had a big iron bed in his home. He would invite people to stay with him, but he wanted the bed to be a perfect fit. So if they were too short for the bed, he would stretch their bodies to fit it.”

  “He would stretch people to fit the bed?”

  “Or cut off their feet if they were too tall. So if an analysis is Procrustean, it means that the person is distorting the facts to fit the model they already have, rather than adjusting the model to fit the facts.”

  Val nods. “It’s kind of like the man with the hammer…”

  “How everything starts to look like a nail,” says John. “Your professor’s whole framework for understanding human behavior has to do with brain function. He doesn’t have a way to accommodate consciousness, so he excludes it.”

  “Cuts the guest’s feet off,” Val says, nodding.

  “Exactly. Then he stretches the data he has to fit the model he’s operating under. It doesn’t mean he’s wrong—”

  “He’s just not looking at the whole picture.”

  They sip their drinks, nodding and chuckling contentedly. That winter break, John will fly Val out to his parents’ cabin in Vale for a week of skiing and board games. In the summer, they’ll travel to Barbados.

  8:46 p.m.

  The thin man gives his lips an obnoxiously loud smack, orange slop dribbling into the stubble on his chin. He shakes his head and lets out a satisfied groan, holding the chicken bone aloft between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand, his left hand still holding the revolver, training it on John as he finishes stitching his partner.

  “Mmmmmm… now them’s some good wings,” he says, his Downeast accent so thick it seems to drip with saltwater. He tosses the chicken bone onto a pile forming on the counter. “Usually get ‘em from Domino’s myself, but these ain’t bad. You almost finished over there?”

  “Just about,” says John, threading the needle through the larger man’s temple. The big guy sits, as still and silent as a Tibetan monk, perhaps inured to the pain by now or else putting on a show of toughness for his friend. If the other man is impressed, he doesn’t show it. He pulls some fries and another wing from the Styrofoam take-out container and looks around the kitchen.

  Val is bound to a chair in the living room. The big man hadn’t made the same mistake the second time around. He taped each of Val’s limbs individually to the chair and pulled the zip ties so tight around her wrists and ankles that she’d have to crack some bones to get loose.

  The thin man looks over at Val through the archway, munching the chicken flesh and nodding in approval at her discomfort. “You got any more wine here? Other than what your old lady broke my friend’s head with?”

  “Downstairs,” says John, “in the wine cellar.”

  The thin man takes a step toward John, squinting incredulously. “You got your own wine cellar?”

  John nods. “There are some very expensive vintages down there. A Domain LeRoy that’s worth a couple thousand dollars. Chatêau Lafite—”

  “Wait a second, wait a second, wait a second… you’re tellin’ me that you spent two grand on one bottle of wine?”

  “It was a gift, actually,” says John.

  The thin man laughs. “You fuckin’ people—you got enough money that you could buy anything you want, but you don’t even have to, ‘cause other rich people just give it to you.” He walks over to the archway and calls out to Val: “Hey, lady—what’s the most expensive thing your husband ever gave you.” There’s no answer. He looks over. “Oh, right.”

  He goes over to Val and tears the gag out of her mouth. “So what is it?”

  “I’m… not sure,” she says.

  “You’re not sure?”

  “I couldn’t say off-hand.”

  “Most expensive you can think of.”

  “I… I guess a car, probably.”

  “A car,” the man says, looking back-and-forth between Val and the two men in the kitchen, nodding his head as if impressed. “What kind of car, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “A Mercedes.”

  “Wooooowwwww… a Mercedes.” He looks back over at John. “Wouldn’t spring for the Bentley, huh?”

  “I would never drive a Bentley,” Val says with a sneer. “They’re too ostentatious.”

  “Ahhh,” says the thin man, “whereas a Benz—that’s fuckin’ modest.”

  “It’s comfortable and reliable,” says Val. John struggles to focus on the job before him. Is she trying to piss this guy off?

  “I bet it is,” says the thin man. “I bet it is. A lot more comfortable and reliable than the fuckin’ Geo I rode up here in, no doubt. Bought the damn thing in ‘04 for two grand. Probably shoulda bought me a fine cabernet instead, ‘cause now it costs me about another grand most every year just to keep it runnin’. Not to mention the gas it goes through. Swear to God the thing gets about 0.5 miles a gallon.”

  “Sounds like you could use a new car,” says Val.

  “I could use a lot of things,” says the man. He squares off in front of Val and takes a long drag of the cigarette, gazing at her with indifference—like he’s looking at a pile of scrap metal. He blows the smoke over her face. She grimaces and coughs. The man lets out a thin, humorless laugh.

  John gulps. “You’re welcome to the car or anything else we have. Take any of it, please. It’s yours.”

  The thin man turns to John. “Do we look like we’re here to make a quick buck?” He shakes his head. “We’ve shown no sign whatsoever that we plan to rob you. But you can’t get your head around that idea, can you? The notion that a couple of lowlife thugs such as ourselves might have, I don’t know, a higher purpose—that’s just beyond your reckoning, ain’t it? Don’t fit into the shape of things as you see ‘em?”

  John doesn’t answer.

  The thin man turns back to Val. “I don’t think you gave me the right answer, though. About the mo
st expensive thing he ever gave you.”

  “It’s the most expensive thing I could think of.”

  “You got kids, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” Val admits. John’s heart is pounding.

  “Well, he gave you them, didn’t he? I mean—I hope he did.” He juts out his elbow with a wink, like he’s nudging John in the side. “A kid’s sure as hell more expensive than a car. The way I expect you raise ‘em—private school and all that. Your kids go to private school?”

  Clara had elected to go to Great Falls High, to stay out of her brothers’ long shadow at Hebron Academy, but Val doesn’t bother to explain this. “Yes,” she says.

  “I bet they did…”

  “I’m finished,” John says, cutting the excess thread from the last stitch.

  The thin man’s eyes, fixed in a predatory gaze, linger for a moment on Val before he slinks back into the kitchen. He looks his partner over, admiring John’s handiwork.

  “How’s it look?” says the patient, tilting his head to give his companion a better view.

  “Good as new,” says the thin man, clapping John on the shoulder. “How ‘bout a beer,” he says, seeming already to have forgotten about the stitches. “You got any beer?”

  “In the fridge,” says John.

  “Watch him,” says the thin man to his partner, who stands and takes his rifle back in hand. The thin man opens the fridge and pulls out a six-pack of longneck brown bottles. He looks at the label. “Peak Organic. Fancy.”

  “They’re based in Portland,” says John.

  “Well,” says the thin man, “on behalf of the hard-working men and women of the great state of Maine, I thank you for supporting the local economy. Now—” he nods in the direction of the great room “—what do you say we all go have a little chat?”

  John feels the barrel of the rifle press between his shoulder blades.

  The thin man opens four bottles of ale with the butt of his cigarette lighter and, after the ogre has gotten Val unbound, hands them around to all. The ogre sinks into their deep-seated sofa while the thin man perches proudly on a high-backed leather-bound armchair.

  The thin man takes a long pull from his beer. He looks at the bottle, lips pursed. “Not too bad. It’s no Keystone Light, but…” He takes another gulp, burps, and pounds his chest. “Pardon my French.” He chuckles. “All right, first things first. Your names are Jonathan and Valerie Lavando—do I have that right?”

  John nods. Val sits stone-faced and motionless.

  “That what you go by? Jonathan and Valerie?”

  “I’m John, and this is Val.”

  Val remains silent.

  “All right. John and Val. I would say it’s a pleasure to meet you, but I don’t want to speak for the man with the head wound. My name is Dresden, and this is my associate, Stanley.”

  The ogre nods hello.

  Val squints at the thin man. What the hell kind of name is Dresden?

  “Let’s start by getting a couple things straight,” Dresden continues. “We are not kidnappers. We are not robbers. We are not thieves or thugs or miscreants of any kind.”

  “Then what are you?” Val asks.

  “We are reformers. Or better yet, reclaimers. We’re here to give you what you deserve and to take from you what is not rightfully yours.”

  “What the hell does that mean?” Val sees John glaring at her out of the corner of her eye.

  “We’re here,” says Dresden, “to take back what has been systematically stolen from the honest, hardworking people of the United States of America in general and the sovereign state of Maine in particular.” Dresden looks at Stanley, who nods his approval, then to John and Val in turn, his eyes narrowing as he looks at her. He reaches over to the briefcase at his side and pulls out a folded document of about four or five pages.

  He holds the document up over his head. “I have here a copy of the Declaration of the Reclamation of the United States of America—”

  “That’s a real mouthful,” Val mutters.

  Dresden clears his throat. “—by mandate of which we are acting here tonight. Lest you think we’re some kinda rogue battalion or what-not.”

  “The Reclamation?” Val says. Her voice has an edge of incredulity, bordering on disdain.

  “That’s right,” says Dresden.

  “So you’re some sort of revolutionaries?”

  John leans toward her. “Val…”

  Dresden grins. “A revolutionary tries to tear down the old order and replace it with something new. Which nine times out of ten becomes corrupt and perverted itself. Why the fuck would we want to do a silly thing like that? Our purpose is different. We’re out to take back what was ours to begin with: the structures that were built with the sweat and blood of the American worker, the riches that have been taken from him through the manipulations, machinations, and collusions of the moneyed elite. We’re out to put a stop to the criminal activity perpetrated with impunity by the most fortunate members of our society, and to restore equity, justice, and true representative governance.”

  “And what does this have to do with us?” says Val. “What have we ever done to you?”

  Dresden chuckles and shakes his head.

  “What I think my wife is trying to say,” says John, “is that you may have made a mistake. We’re not criminals. We’re good people.”

  “My husband is a doctor. An obstetrician. He’s saved the lives of hundreds of women and their babies.”

  “You don’t say,” says Dresden, setting the document down on the coffee table. He looks over at Stanley, his eyebrows raised. Stanley shifts in his seat and swallows. “Let me ask you,” Dresden continues, “I know that doctors make a pretty good living, but a place like this—” he gestures grandly at the palatial surroundings “—you don’t lock down this kind of pad just pulling babies out from between women’s legs… do ya? Plus, I bet this ain’t the only house you got, is it? Bet you got a summer home, winter home, maybe a little… what do they call that, a pied-a-terre in the city?” John and Val are both silent. “So you got other sources of income, is what I’m sayin’.”

  “I own a significant stake in a business I co-founded,” John admits.

  “Yes, you do,” Dresden intones. He reaches into the briefcase and produces another document. “Safeguard Industries, one of the premier producers and distributors of medical supplies in the country. Not too shabby.” Stanley shifts in his seat as his partner reads. He’s staring at the floor, looking a little queasy. “Annual gross revenue… oh my goodness, am I reading this right? Annual revenue about four hundred million dollars—give or take—with a pretty decent profit margin. And you own, let me see… a thirty-two percent share. Wow. How’d all that come about for you? Starting up a business like that?”

  John sighs. “A few years into private practice, I found myself dissatisfied with a probe that’s used in certain difficult deliveries. I’ll spare you the details, but it had to do with the shape and the tensile strength of the materials. So I got in touch with an old lacrosse buddy of mine named Jack Spear who had become a chemical engineer, and we designed a better one. Jack brought on a friend of his from Andover named Lively Summers, who had an investment firm in—”

  “Fuck off,” says Dresden. “‘Lively Summers’? No way that’s a real name.”

  “I…”

  “Sorry, go on.”

  “Lively helped us patent a handful of new technologies and acquire others from various suppliers.”

  “And before long you were one of the top players in the industry,” says Dresden.

  “That’s right.”

  “And how much of that business you bring back around to your home state?”

  John shakes his head. “In the company’s early days, I campaigned to set up a factory and headquarters in Central Maine. I thought we could take over one of the abandoned mills on the Androscoggin. But Lively thought we’d do better elsewhere.”

  “Outsource production, in other words.
”

  “I wasn’t involved much on that end of things.”

  “But you went along with it.”

  “The fact is, I was never a businessman at heart. So I decided it would be best if I left all that to them and focused on my practice here. I’ll pop down to Boston for a board meeting every now and then, but that’s the extent of it.”

  “Uh huh,” Dresden says, taking another glance at the paper, “but that thirty-two percent share… That must net you a tidy sum at the end of the year. Plus, I bet you got a little stable of accountants and financial advisors multiplying that sum for you. What do they call it, a diverse portfolio—stocks, bonds, trusts, busts, crusts, whatever the hell it is you fat cats invest in. So what I’m taking from this is you got this big stream of money rolling in, which you literally don’t have to lift a finger for—except maybe to sign a couple papers every now and then. Maybe not that even, ‘cause you mighta given one of those fuckahs in a suit power of attorney. Is that about the shape of it?”

  Val carefully regulates her breathing, struggling not to show how much this frank discussion of their finances upsets her. She can hear her mother’s voice in her head—there are some things you just do not talk about.

  Dresden registers her discomfort but misinterprets its cause. “Oh, hey now, don’t think we came by any of this information by untoward means. You can find out this much on Wikipedia.” He turns back to John. “Let me ask you—how much money do you have, total?”

  “I’m not exactly sure.”

  Dresden turns to Stanley. “He’s not exactly sure.”

  “I could give you a ballpark figure.”

  Dresden turns to Val. “Your husband doesn’t know how much money you have. Do you know how much money you have?”

  Val holds her tongue.

  Dresden leans toward her. “Do you?”

  “It’s just that it’s complicated,” says John. “A lot of it is locked up in a blind trust that rises and falls with the market.”