Panacea

by Brad Murray

  He turned and looked seriously at Stern. “Let us hope that fate is smiling upon us. Let us hope Agent Jordan lands them safely.”

  Stern nodded.

  “Even though things haven’t gone exactly as I had planned,” Brumeux continued, “we remain on track. Please tell Adler to arrange a car for our arrival in Springfield.”

  “Already done sir,” said Stern. “You were right about Agent Jordan.”

  “I’m an excellent judge of character, Stern. I knew she’d take the bait. Having the Baron right there waiting was a nice touch. Inform Adler I’m ready for takeoff.”

  Brumeux picked up his cane and ambled towards the Learjet. They would land in Springfield in an hour, a full hour ahead of Jimmy and the others.

  23

  Today - May 29, 2011

  The plane rocked in all directions, bucking and thrashing its occupants like a never-ending amusement park ride. The thunderstorm had built in a hurry, back-building to the west with such great mass that in a matter of an hour it had become a monster. Lightning flashed every few seconds, and the ominous growl of thunder could be heard over the low hum of the twin engines.

  And if the scene Mother Nature was concocting ahead of them wasn’t menacing enough, the sight of the pilot nervously thrashing about the cockpit was enough to leave the passengers reciting silent prayers. Jenny flipped from crumpled map to crumpled map, cursing at no one in particular.

  “Oh sweet Jeeeeeeeezus!” whimpered La’Roi for the umpteenth time. He had kept his eyes sealed shut for the last ten minutes solid, and every thirty seconds he rechecked his seat belt to make sure it was snug.

  “Shut up, La’Roi!” Jenny yelled. “I’m trying to concentrate!”

  In the back, Andy and Jimmy tried their best to focus on matters other than the white-knuckle plane ride. But it was difficult to break the ice; to get the conversation started. They were father and son, and yet they were complete strangers. Neither knew where to begin – for there was no guidebook on how to get to know a loved one you haven’t seen or talked to in over a decade. The conversation moved in fits and starts; sputtering awkwardly to and fro, much like the airplane they were riding in. But finally, Jimmy worked his way towards the question, if for nothing else to take his mind off the storm ahead.

  “You know,” said Jimmy as he looked out the window. “Cooper and I used to sneak away from the house on our bikes after you left. We used to ride off thinking we could find you.”

  The corners of Jimmy’s mouth turned up in a slight grin.

  “Mom would come lookin’ for us in the car…she’d creep up behind us on the dirt road and let us go, keeping an eye on us. I think she just wanted to let us get it out of our system – looking for you. Eventually we’d give up, tired from all the pedaling.”

  Jimmy turned to his father. Andy’s eyes were glassy, and he turned away so as not to let his son see.

  “What happened to you Dad? What happened the day you disappeared?”

  Andy exhaled deeply and cleared his throat. He stared out the window at the purple clouds that were surrounding them. He had anticipated the question and had often thought about how he would explain what happened to his family - if ever given the chance. And now that the moment had finally arrived, he found that he had forgotten his lines from the script he had rehearsed.

  “I – I uh. Well…I guess you could say I’ve thought about that day a lot, son. If only I hadn’t stormed out the way I did. Things would be different.”

  Jimmy knew that he was about to get answers to the things he spent years torturing himself about.

  “I was pissed when I drove off,” Andy began.

  “You were pissed because I put a shitload of buckshot holes in your truck,” said Jimmy.

  “No,” said Andy. “Is that what you thought all this time? Dammit to hell, Bud– you thought I would leave you because of a few holes in a fender?”

  Jimmy shrugged his shoulders, tried to swallow the lump in his throat, and looked away.

  “The truth is, when I ran into the shed and saw those holes in the fender rather than holes in you or your brother, I’d never been so relieved in my life. But I felt like a terrible father for having left you alone with that shotgun. Your mom was right, and I felt guilty as hell about it.”

  “It was my fault for being an idiot,” muttered Jimmy.

  Andy placed a tentative hand on Jimmy’s shoulder and patted consolingly. “You were eight, Bud. You weren’t old enough to be an idiot. That truck – hell, a little body putty and some elbow grease would have fixed a few little holes. By the way, what ever happened to that old truck?”

  “Fixed it up. Finished the job you started.”

  “No kidding,” said Andy, smiling proudly.

  “Yeah, I think you would have liked it. Saved up one summer and had it painted. Last year I put in a new exhaust and carburetor. I even reupholstered the interior myself. Engine was always a pain in the ass though. Seemed like something always needed fixin’ or replacin’.”

  “That’s really somethin’, son. I’m proud of ya. So did you sell it?”

  “Nope,” Jimmy said casually. “I wrecked it. Today.”

  Andy’s eyes widened. “The accident on the interstate? Ram?”

  Jimmy nodded.

  “I still can’t make sense of it,” Jimmy said. “Uncle Ram being dead now, if Brumeux is telling the truth. And hearing that he’s actually not Ram at all but that he is somebody else entirely – working for them… ”

  “It’s a tough pill to swallow, isn’t it?” said Andy. “I might not have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes.”

  Jimmy cocked his head to the side. “What do you mean?”

  “It was the day I was taken, the day you thought I had abandoned you. Your mom and I had been arguing about money, like all couples do. Typical disagreements - nothing out of the norm. And then when I had the guilt trip about leaving you boys alone with the shotgun, I was pissed off – at your mom, myself, the world. I got it in my head that I needed to get away, to go cool off and collect my thoughts.”

  Andy looked down at his lap again.

  “And then it happened.”

  ***

  Andy started up the old Chevy Caprice, put it in gear, and tore out of the snowy driveway like a bandit. He needed to blow off steam - get away from Emma and the kids for a while. Between Emma’s constant stress about the budget and her fury over the shotgun, Andy needed to find some peace before he said something he would later regret.

  Andy had grown up with only vague memories of his father, and had lived a nomadic existence with his strangely paranoid mother. They moved about from place to place, never staying for longer than a month or two, never getting to know anyone intimately. And just when Andy would make new friends and start to feel settled in a new school – poof – they’d disappear to places unknown, often in the dead of the night.

  He’d always reasoned that his mother had gone crazy when his father died. Who wouldn’t when the light of your life is taken from you as you’re just beginning your journey together? Yes, his mother had lost her mind because of the car accident, but she had lost so much more than that. She had lost her faith in mankind and, because of it, was never able to trust another person for the rest of her life.

  They slept in bungalows and single room shanties and even the occasional shelter - often together in the same bed. Andy had grown used to waking to his mother’s thrashing and wailing – whimpering aloud about the “man with one eye.” The recurrence of her violent nightmares had been so commonplace that he had developed a picture of what the “man with one eye” looked like. Probably, he surmised, he had invented a picture of a man who only existed in his mother’s mind. But that picture was strangely clear: trimmed mustache, one eye scarred and bleeding, the man was crawling in agony towards him. Reaching for him - aching to reach him.

  When Andy was just sixteen his mother passed away in her sleep. And though the doctors had said the culprit was
heart disease, Andy knew his mother had died of a broken heart. After that, Andy determined he would embrace life and all it had to offer; not hide from it like his mother had. On his own, he would find the things in life he so desired but had never known – peace and stability and, most of all, a home. And the person he found to share it with – Emma – had been beyond his wildest imagination. She was a goddess. He loved her more than he ever thought was possible. He loved her because she shared the same carpe diem temperament. He loved her because she was as beautiful on the inside as she was out. And he loved her because she was a challenge. What fun would life be if you spent it with someone who never fought back, never pushed you to become a better version of yourself?

  Still, that feistiness that he loved about her had its drawbacks. At times their strong-willed temperaments would collide forcefully enough that small arguments would turn into yelling matches until, eventually, one of them would swallow their pride and apologize. As Andy rumbled away from the farm house, he knew he would eventually be the one apologizing on this issue. Emma was right about the guns. Though Jimmy was mature for his age, he had just proven beyond debate that he had no business being left unsupervised with a loaded shotgun.

  As he spun onto the country road, a wintery mix of dirt, sand and snow shot out in a wave from the Caprice’s rear tire. He didn’t know where he was going really – but at the moment any direction he went was away from home, and right now that was all that mattered. He stomped on the accelerator, roaring up the snow-covered dirt road incline like a bat out of hell. As the car climbed over the peak, Ram’s house came into view. It welcomed him – beckoned him. Maybe he’d throw back a beer or two and kick his feet up with his best pal to take his mind off things. It seemed like the perfect remedy.

  Pulling into the short driveway, Andy parked next to the front door walkway. As he got out, he heard a loud bang coming from around back. Andy walked down the side of the house towards the rear, snow crunching under his feet, and the winter wind whipping its icy breath across the nape of his neck. The row of cottonwood and elm trees behind Ram’s out-buildings creaked complainingly against the breeze, their spindly, leafless branches twisted and contorted like arthritic fingers. Andy thrust his hands deeper into his thin coat pockets, hunched his shoulders and lowered his head, as if making himself less available for the cold to bite.

  The screen door on the back of the old farm house was still coming to a close; its pneumatic arm slowly pulling it shut - Ram had just entered the house. Andy opened the back door and stuck his head inside while rapping on the door frame.

  “Ram?” he shouted.

  Descending immediately from the house’s back door entrance was a wooden stairway leading to the basement. A light flickered from below and Andy heard a thud coming from the bottom of the stairwell. Andy had only been in Ram’s house on a handful of occasions in all the time they’d been neighbors, and never once had he been in the basement. Ram seemed to prefer the Porter house, and only rarely invited the Porters over. Andy had never thought twice about Ram’s apparent aversion for visitors. After all, it was a bachelor pad, and there were probably any number of smutty items lying around that he didn’t want Emma or the boys to see.

  Andy yelled for his friend again on his way down the stairs, but Ram didn’t answer. Andy reached the last of the creaky steps and eyed the long concrete hallway in front of him. It extended the length of the house and there were three doorways on his left, and three on his right – an odd layout for an old farmhouse. The distinct odors of mothballs, dust, and mildew hung heavily in the air. Andy tentatively strode forward down the hallway and called out again.

  “Hey asshole! You down here?” he shouted.

  Andy twisted the handle on the first door but found it was locked. The second was cracked open slightly. He gingerly pushed it open, found a light switch, and stuck his head inside. Other than a half-dozen or so metal file cabinets, the room was empty.

  “Ram? Where you at?” he called, moving on to the second pair of doors in the hallway.

  As he pushed open the third door, its metal hinges squeaked in protest. It swung open slowly, steadily revealing the contents of the room. A colossal rosewood desk sat dead center, an office chair tucked away neatly underneath it. Stacks of papers and binders sat at perfect right angles to each other on the desktop. A 1999 Sports Illustrated swimsuit calendar, with its young model and her bronzed buns staring back seductively hung on the wall next to the desk.

  Normally, Andy would have been fascinated by the desk; mesmerized by its beautiful grain and enamored with its ornate woodwork. He appreciated the craft. But something else in the room had snatched the reins of his attention. Other than in a department store, Andy had never seen so many TV’s together in one place. He counted eight of them, mounted on the wall and organized in two rows of four.

  He took a step closer.

  One of the TVs on the bottom row was tuned to a still picture – the front porch of a house. It looked similar to the porch at home, thought Andy. Another was tuned to an empty room. In fact, as Andy glanced at each TV, most of them were tuned to empty rooms. Pixelated movement on the television in the top right corner caught his eye. A handful of people were moving about in a kitchen.

  Andy took another step closer to the screens. His jaw dropped.

  “Emma,” he whispered to himself.

  Emma rubbed her temples as if dealing with a migraine. The two boys sat behind her at the kitchen table eating sandwiches. As aching realization washed over him, a pit in Andy’s stomach developed, and the unshakable feeling of dread set in. The whole thing was irreconcilable. Nonsensical.

  My god, he’s watching my house. My family. He has a camera in every room.

  Why?

  What is Ram do-

  A noise coming from behind startled him. Andy spun around on his toes.

  Ram.

  He stood in the doorway carrying a cardboard box, headphones over his ears, eyes bulging, mouth hanging open. The expression on Ram’s face exposed his utter surprise. Ram had clearly been caught red-handed. At what exactly, he couldn’t yet fathom.

  “What the hell are you doing down here?” demanded Andy.

  Ram slowly lowered the box to the floor, peeled the headphones away from his ears, and placed them in the box. He stood - fully erect – and balled his fists. He was a menacing, statuesque tower, his height exacerbated by the low basement ceiling. The top of his head barely cleared the door frame. His expression was solemn, and the grim look in his eye was one Andy had never seen in his friend before. It was intimidating; threatening. Andy suddenly realized he was trapped; the giant was blocking the room’s only escape. And judging by his body language, Ram had no intention of letting him by peacefully.

  Before he could originate another thought, Ram was on top of him. It was disturbing someone so big could move so fast. Andy helplessly keeled over backwards and felt his breath evaporate from his lungs as Ram’s full weight slammed his back to the unforgiving floor. Ram raised a giant fist and in one crashing blow, Andy went black.

  ***

  Indistinguishable voices bounced around in the cluttered cobwebs of Andy’s mind as consciousness gradually returned. His head throbbed in an agonizing pulsating rhythm, and every little noise was amplified to what felt like a cymbal crash. He gingerly lifted a hand to his temple, immediately finding the source of the agony. It stung at the slightest touch of his fingertips and somewhere in the back of his muddled mind, was the memory of Ram’s crushing blow. He cringed as the shrill voices continued.

  “It’s been taken care of. We had his car covered and loaded onto a trailer. It’s already been removed from the house…”

  He cautiously lifted one eyelid, aware the combination of light and sound might make his head explode. He found he was lying on his back on a sofa, its leather cushions crumpling as he sat up. The room was dimly lit; heavy shades drawn over its windows. But even in the muted light, Andy sensed the spaciousness of the room. An adj
acent fireplace crackled while the orange glow of its dancing flames cast forlorn shadows across rug-covered floors. An antique mahogany desk stood a few feet away, its grain flickering in and out of the firelight. The walls were covered by a collection of paintings, most of them of distinguished looking people who stared back condescendingly.

  A powder keg of a man dressed in a black security guard suit stood next to him. At first, because of his sheer size, Andy thought he was Ram. Chest and arms bulged; thick veins snaked and coiled around his biceps like phone cords. But Ram was taller and more athletic; this guy was thick and beefy like a bodybuilder.

  “Sir, he’s awake,” said the man.

  From somewhere across the room came a terse voice, where blackness obscured its source.

  “Get the lights, Stern,” said the voice.

  “You’ll have to forgive us, Andrew.” The voice was mature, distinguished, and decidedly intelligent. The dark outline of a man came out of the shadows, moving cautiously towards Andrew and the sofa.

  “If our voices stirred you from your slumber, my apologies.”

  Andy turned his pounding head to find the man referred to as Stern at a chrome plated switch panel. Soft white light faded in from above as he gradually twisted a rheostat dial. Andy lifted a hand to his brow to shade his eyes and grimaced when his hand brushed against his tender temple.

  “Looks like it hurts,” said the man. “Could we get you some ice for the swelling?”

  “Where am I?” Andy demanded. “Where’s Roger?”

  “Please try to remain calm, Andrew. You’re in no danger.”

  Andy looked up to catch a glimpse of the mystery man standing over him, or at least he attempted to. The lights from the ceiling above scorched his eyes like the focused beam of a lighthouse. Andy recoiled and covered his eyes with his forearm.

  “Stern, dim the lights. And have an aspirin and an icepack brought up.”