Panacea

by Brad Murray

  Emma gasped and shook her head.

  “My god, it’s true,” she exhaled. “What they told me is true.”

  “You see Mrs. Porter,” Letta said cooly, “you can take us at our word.”

  Letta turned her gaze to Andy and narrowed her eyes.

  “And it was Benoit Brumeux who held you captive, wasn’t it?”

  Andy nodded his head.

  “Did he tell you why?”

  “Brumeux doesn’t feel the need to explain himself to anyone,” Andy stated, purposefully avoiding answering the question.

  He had to be cautious, he told himself. Andy still didn’t know who these people were or what they represented. It was clear they had already told Emma some portion of the truth; that a man named Brumeux had imprisoned him, and that Ram was somebody else entirely. But Andy wondered what else they had filled Emma’s head with. He had to be wary about every word he said. He needed to ferret out what they knew; about Brumeux, about the Order, about his family. And most importantly, he needed to determine what their intentions were with Jimmy and with Emma. The years of Brumeux’s dire warnings about the Alicante loomed ominously in the back of his mind. While he hated the man, and distrusted every solitary word that crossed his lips, just a few hours earlier Brumeux had specifically cautioned that the Alicante had discovered Jimmy’s curious healing powers, and that Jimmy’s fate, and the fate of the world would be sealed. Andy couldn’t take the chance that Brumeux was lying about the Alicante. The lives of his family depended on it.

  Andy decided to deflect the spotlight.

  “Who do you people represent?” Andy asked the elderly couple.

  Letta scoffed. “We’re here to help you, just as we told you, Mr. Porter.”

  “Help us how?”

  “To protect your family from Brumeux, as I’ve already said.” Letta’s countenance stiffened, annoyed with his questions.

  “And what do you believe Brumeux is going to do to my family? Why do you think we would need protecting?”

  “Do you really need to ask that question, Mr. Porter?” huffed Letta. “You, having spent over a decade being held by Brumeux against your will? You of all people should know what he is capable of.”

  The two exchanged steely, unblinking stares. Andy set his jaw and exhaled, pursing his lips together tightly. Silence claimed the room. After a few moments, Letta turned her attention to La’Roi.

  “And who are you?” she asked. La’Roi took a step backwards, as if in retreat.

  “La’Roi Dawkins,” he said guardedly.

  “And you are here why exactly?”

  La’Roi glanced quickly at Jimmy.

  “Ma’am, I’ve been asking myself that question all damn day,” he said, grinning uncomfortably. “I’m a paramedic. There was a helluva mess on the interstate this morning. I treated Jimmy at the scene.”

  “You’re a paramedic who works for Brumeux,” stated Letta.

  “No ma’am,” he said, pointing to his patch. “See here? I’m a paramedic for Parsons, Missouri.”

  “Are you a pilot, Mr. Dawkins?” asked Lars. “Someone flew you here – I assume it was you. A paramedic who flies airplanes on the side?”

  La’Roi’s mouth hung open as he searched for a response. His mind scrambled for an intelligible story, some believable reply. He prayed the man wouldn’t begin grilling him over the very specific particulars of piloting an aircraft. His story would be seen through in an instant. They would know the pilot was not in the room; and Jenny would be compromised.

  Just as La’Roi opened his mouth, he was spared by a cell phone ring coming from somewhere near the sofa. La’Roi exhaled, relieved.

  The room was motionless as the unexpected soothing chime of a ring tone echoed. For a moment, Jimmy didn’t even realize it was his phone. He scrambled, reaching into the pockets of his cargo shorts.

  “Hello?” he said warily, glancing at his father. He turned slowly towards the elderly couple. “It’s for you,” he said bewilderedly as he handed the phone to Lars.

  ***

  The wall of televisions conveyed all the action. With the notable exception of only one screen, there was absolutely nothing happening in any of the rooms of the Porter home. But on that one screen the old man watched intently; the volume turned up near the threshold of pain.

  “Ma’am, I’ve been asking myself that question all damn day,” he heard La’Roi Dawkins say.

  Brumeux laughed heartily. He liked that Dawkins character. He had a disarming way about him, and he and Jimmy had seemed to become fast friends. What a pity it would be if something were to happen to La’Roi.

  Brumeux had been watching since he had landed in Springfield via jet, long before the storm had roared to life and well before the slow crawling propeller-driven Baron had even begun its decent. Brumeux and Stern had driven from the Springfield airport and snuck into Traugott’s farmhouse, undetected by the scourge that occupied the Porter house down the road. It had been a tense couple of hours; the unanticipated storm threatening James’ life. He had allowed Jimmy and the others to fly here on their own. Hell, he had practically dared them to. There were other options, of course. Options that were less dangerous; less prone to chance. But in the end, the only option that allowed Brumeux to make his grand entrance – the one he’d savored so much he could practically taste it – was the one in which Jenny flew them on her own. But when Brumeux discovered they had landed in the field instead of the airport, he was horrified. His heart stopped and all the breath escaped from his lungs. For a brief second, he had imagined his ego had jeopardized everything; all he’d worked for; all he’d sacrificed and prepared for. But they had made it – Jenny’s skill and determination had proven exemplary. After Stern reported they had landed unharmed, Brumeux felt the blood resume its flow through his veins. He wouldn’t let self-interests get in the way again, he vowed.

  Brumeux hit the button on his cell phone. It was nearing time to make his move, but first he needed to verify something.

  “Stern,” he said, his eyes remaining fixated on the television screen. “Do you have her?”

  Satisfied with the response, he ended the call. He watched with great interest as the old couple’s interrogation proceeded. He grinned as he watched La’Roi squirm under the pressure. It was nearing time.

  “Are you a pilot, Mr. Dawkins?” Lars’ voice rumbled through the speakers in the basement walls of the concrete surveillance room. “A paramedic who flies airplanes on the side?”

  A part of Brumeux wanted to wait and listen to La’Roi’s response; to see what kind of story he might concoct. But, it was time to let Dawkins off the hook.

  Everything was set.

  Brumeux dialed the number and waited for him to answer.

  “Hello?” said Jimmy.

  “James, hand the phone to the elderly gentleman standing in your living room. I wish to speak to him.”

  Brumeux smiled as he prepared himself for the walk.

  28

  Today - May 29, 2011

  “This is Benoit Brumeux. Please don’t hurt anyone.”

  There was distress in his voice. He seemed harried, out of breath, beleaguered.

  And this pleased Lars immensely.

  The old man’s purple lips curled around themselves, much like the wickedly sublime grin of The Grinch Who Stole Christmas. He couldn’t contain it, it was uncontrollable - the excitement that bounded around inside of him. Lars felt forty years younger, and all because of the voice on the other end of the phone.

  It was music to his ears.

  For it was him – Benoit Brumeux – the man he and his sister had been conspiring against for so many years. There was no one on the planet Lars hated more than Benoit Brumeux - with the exception of Viktor Schwarz. And today, extraordinarily, he had discovered they were one and the same.

  He leaned in close to his sister and pressed the phone’s speaker button. He wanted Letta to be able to hear every word; to receive the same thrill he was feeling. Br
umeux – and Viktor Schwarz – had spent so much time occupying a room in their heads. Hell, he took up an entire wing. He had tormented and teased them for decades.

  As if there would be no repercussions.

  “I know you have detained James Porter,” said Brumeux. “And I’m prepared to do whatever you want. But first I must ask - what I should call you?”

  Lars’ lips impossibly curled around themselves even further than before.

  “You may refer to me as Lars, Mr. Brumeux.”

  “Please, Mr. Lars, don’t hurt James or any of my people you may have apprehended,” Brumeux pleaded. His voice was becoming all the more uneven - shaky and distressed.

  “We have no intention of harming your people, as you refer to them,” snapped Letta in her most snooty tone. Her eyebrows were raised, her expression tight and serious, but there was the slightest hint of giddiness that unwillingly escaped.

  Brumeux was silent for a moment; apparently surprised and perplexed by the unexpected outburst from the female voice.

  “I’m afraid I’m at a disadvantage,” Brumeux said breathlessly. “With whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?” asked Brumeux.

  Letta’s face turned up in a contorted grin – a grin that mirrored her twin brother’s.

  “You know who we represent, Brumeux,” snapped Letta. “And our organization has ignored you and the Order for far too long. I’m afraid you’ve become an obstruction to us, and now that you’ve garnered our attention, we are prepared to deal with you. Once and for all.”

  “What organization are you referring to?” asked a quivering Brumeux.

  “Oh come now,” snarled Letta. “You can dispense with the false ignorance. You know full well who we are.”

  Occasionally, a rush of static crossed over the speaker, as if Brumeux were standing outside in a stiff breeze that distractingly forced itself across his phone’s mouthpiece.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Lars. Please forgive an aging man for his apparent lack of memory. I must admit, my faculties are just not as sharp as they once were.”

  “Not Mr. Lars - Lars is my first name,” he growled, becoming visibly frustrated. “And the other voice you heard is my sister, Letta.”

  “Please spare us the games, Mr. Brumeux,” snapped Letta. “We – you – have no time for games, and you are trying our patience.”

  “Games? What games are you referring to?” panted Brumeux.

  “Mr. Porter, for one,” said Lars. “He represents one of your games – one of your initiatives, doesn’t he?”

  Brumeux was silent.

  “Oh, we’ve been aware of your activities for quite some time,” said Letta. “The scheming of the Order, your interference. And now we’ve been made aware of Mr. Porter’s significance, along with your intentions. I must admit, Mr. Brumeux, you deserve far more credit than I had imagined. Quite the feat to keep someone as…unique as James Porter out of the beams of the Alicante’s searchlights for as long as you have. But, inevitably, such endeavors prove moot. They are pointless. The Alicante are relentless - unrivaled in our ability to unravel such plots.”

  “Alicante?” asked Brumeux. His voice was quivering, of that Lars was certain. Oh, to see his face when they unveiled the full truth. He felt like a boy at Christmas, and the time to tear into the presents he’d long been lusting for was coming due.

  “That’s right, Mr. Brumeux,” puffed Lars. He ran his fingers through his white hair proudly, and regarded his sister with a twinkle in his eye. “My sister and I are the Alicante. We are its most senior members. We, Mr. Brumeux, will decide your fate, and the fate of the Order.”

  Lars and Letta paused for effect. They wanted to let the full impact of the revelation weigh heavily on Brumeux’s mind. Finally, after a few silent seconds, Lars began again.

  “But we’re not interested in harming James Porter, Benoit. Nor do we intend to harm his mother or father or Mr. Dawkins for that matter. I do wish we could say the same for your man Minkowski and the pretty blonde agent we have lying unconscious on the floor. I’m afraid they have endured quite a thrashing, and all because of their misguided allegiance to you.”

  “Please,” pleaded Brumeux. “It’s me you want. Don’t hurt them.”

  “That’s correct,” smiled Letta. “It is you we want. We will contact you in the near future to arrange an exchange. A simple trade; you for your people. We’ll see then if you are truly concerned for their well-being. Have a good evening, Mr. Brumeux.”

  Letta nodded to her brother, signaling him to end the call.

  “Wait!” demanded Brumeux.

  Lars pulled his finger away from the button. He exchanged knowing glances with his sister, relishing in their game of cat and mouse. Brumeux’s phone crackled and hissed with static.

  “We will be meeting,” said Brumeux. “And sooner than you think.”

  The thud of footsteps bellowed across the Porter front porch. Malvado jumped, yanking the gun from his holster. Everyone in the room jolted to attention, their bodies rigid with trepidation.

  The doorbell rang. All eyes were on the front door.

  Once again, the speaker phone jumped to life in Lars and Letta’s ears.

  “Do hurry and answer the door, will you? An old man can catch his death of cold out here.”

  29

  The grass under her feet was comfortingly cool. She’d gone outside barefoot to play with her brother on that beautiful spring morning. Mother was inside their modest new home preparing breakfast which, considering Mother wasn’t used to cooking, was certain to be either burnt or so bland it would be rendered inedible. But she tried hard in her new role as a domesticated housewife, and she appreciated Mother for that. Father had left for work before she had stirred from her bed, as she had grown accustomed to in their few weeks of living in the bungalows that served as officer’s quarters. Father had been given special permission to allow the family to live here with him at the camp. And, though it was a far cry from their grand estate in Berlin, living here was tolerable, simply because they were reunited with Father. The war had separated the family just as it had with so many others. While she missed the comfort of her bedroom back home - which was nearly as large as this entire bungalow, she’d happily live in a shack if it meant her family could be together. Now that the Allies were closing in around them, she felt the need for Father’s comforting strength now more than ever. He had reassured her repeatedly that everything was going to be fine; that they would be safe.

  Letta never doubted Father’s word for one moment.

  “Throw it to me!” she screeched to her twin brother.

  Lars was in the far corner of the yard, tossing the worn leather ball high into the air and tracking its descent from the pale blue sky, snaring it just before it hit the ground. He spent hours in the yard repeating the routine; tossing and catching, catching and tossing. She had little interest in the mundane activity; such dull games were meant for boys. Not that her brother was dull. No, he was far from that. He was interested in history and mathematics and classical music, just as she was. They shared many common interests. Most importantly, they shared in the understanding of the importance of their birthright. Because of their nobility, they were destined to lead - their family had, for generations, been ordained to rule. Father and Grandfather made certain to reinforce that knowledge in Lars and Letta at every opportunity.

  Initially, Father was not happy with his assignment to the camp – of this he made no secret. He was disappointed that Grandfather’s name didn’t lend itself more weight. He’d always wanted to be on the frontlines; in the action, expertly commanding a battalion on the way to heroic victory. Before they came here, Lars and Letta often would overhear Mother speaking with him on the telephone, consoling him, telling him that he was being tested and that his patience would be rewarded. But over the course of the months that he had been at Haasberg, Father’s complaining about his post had virtually ceased. It even seemed he had grown to embrace the position, and that he’
d seen the value his role had on furthering the vision of the Reich.

  He complained about his superior quite often, however. The man called Schwarz. The man who ran the camp and whom Father referred to in quiet talks with Mother as “swine” or “incompetent” or “pathetic coward.” Letta hated Schwarz, though she’d never met him. He was holding Father back, not recognizing his talents, and most importantly not acknowledging the power of the family name.

  Wicker.

  That name should have carried with it respect – admiration even. But Schwarz treated Father like a common slug. It was insulting. If she ever met Schwarz’s children – Viktor or Martha - she’d give them a piece of her mind, she’d decided.

  This week Father had been assigned the menial task of securing a birthday present for Schwarz’s son – a Hitler youth knife no less. It was salt in the wound for Father, and had sent him into a fit of rage the likes of which Letta had never witnessed.

  “Fucking Schwarz,” she heard Father complain to Mother. “He could have assigned anyone in the entire camp, but he chooses me. The Allies are closing in all around us and yet he has me off running his personal errands. He’s rubbing my face in it, trying to humiliate me.”

  “Hans,” Mother comforted, “try not to get so emotional about such things. He’s just trying to get a reaction from you. You must rise above it and keep your emotions in check. Do your best to bite your lip and…”

  “Swine! One day he’ll pay. Make him kneel before me and beg me for mercy before I cut his heart out with that knife. I’ll line up his entire goddamned family and make them watch, especially that sniveling little shit son of his. I’ll make him clean my boots with his tongue and make his wife and children work in the camps. Treat them no differently than the Jew rats…”

  Letta watched as the leather ball arched into the sky. She fought with her brother, like ordinary siblings do, but there was something special about their connection; it was a connection only a twin could understand. Still, she couldn’t help but try to annoy him every once in a while – it was her sisterly duty. Especially when he was deep in thought in one of his endless games of catch, and not paying her any attention whatsoever.