Sheep Dog and the Wolf

by Douglass, Carl;

  It was an order from the ship’s captain, and Hunter knew better than to protest.

  “I’m going to come back early this afternoon to get in some running time, and Marie is going to run with me for a while,” Donna said. “Daddy, will you help watch the kids while we’re out running?”

  “When was the last time I ever refused you anything, Mizz Princess?”

  Donna laughed affectionately. Both of them knew that he would do anything she asked because she would never ask anything he did not like or of which he really disapproved. She loved him deeply for his kindness and evident love for her—a love second only to that she shared with her handsome husband.

  “So, I get stuck with the little monsters on the Family Magic Tour all morning,” groused Stephen with an indulgent smile.

  He was happy to be away from the hospital for the three days he could get off and did not begrudge any of the time he had with his children and his livewire wife.

  “We ought to get an early start, get the quick pass tickets, and exhaust these kids early on; so, we can eat in peace without having to chase them all over the place,” urged Daniel, Sr.

  Marie started to clean up the breakfast dishes; Donna rounded up the children; and she and Rosie scrubbed their faces and hands, changed Daniel Jr.’s tee shirt that looked like he had strained his oatmeal through it, replaced the twins’ sandals for the third time that day, and smeared all of the children with SPF 50 sunscreen. After a chaotic last minute set of plans and revisions and the women’s fervent discussion about what they were going to wear, the party of nine made it out of the door and onto the Disney World shuttle bus. Marie ran back and got sun hats for Daniel and the twins and barely made it to the shuttle bus as its doors were closing. Hunter laughed heartily at the scene that suggested to him a hapless set of adults trying to herd cats. He watched as the shuttle bus drove off past the overly neat—but attractive—Lake Buena Vista in front the Jambo House.

  He sat down on the couch with his top of the line Tecra laptop and began to review the encrypted Starbright Corporation’s year end spread sheet and was pleased with what he was seeing. It had been a banner year for the company, and the best thing about it was that his son, Daniel—despite all of the distraction he put up with from his church activities—was proving to be an altogether competent CEO. Hunter had doubted that the company would be able to secure the top-secret Homeland Security anti-hacking computer contract, but Daniel had made a brilliant presentation to the secretary—better than Hunter could have done, he admitted—and they got the contract. Hunter felt like it was a Boeing type opportunity, and Daniel was shepherding the work along successfully.

  Hunter had to smile about his son: he had a masters in computer science and was a world class programmer which made him a world-class hacker. He knew the world’s major hackers by name, telephone number, and e-mail address. Most of them were young Russian free-lancers, and more than a few were part of the Russian Mafiya. Hunter had learned a great deal about those polar opposites from Daniel and was amused that his puritanical son helped the company along by quietly serving up information via both venues. His son had taught Hunter a great deal about the technology of hacking and the murky characters who lived in the electronic matrix.

  It was up to Hunter as owner to determine the year-end bonuses; and he had to figure the appropriate sums to be handed out before Christmas, two weeks away. There were just over a four hundred executives, consultants, and employees to factor in. The first task was to set a total for the bonuses and then to haggle with himself about how much each was to get. It was a mildly daunting task, but the effort was made easier because of the significant profits Starbright was enjoying.

  Once in the park, Rosie volunteered to chase Camille and Genevieve around, and thus to avoid the really gut wrenching rides that the girls and their older kids liked so much. She was amazed at how much repetition the two year olds could tolerate. She had grown accustomed to the fact by tending them as they watched the same inane Disney children’s movies and cartoons over and over. The movies—and indeed—the resort’s rides drove her halfcrazy; but the chance to be with the little girls for three hours was a delight to the doting grandmother.

  Camille was the physical daredevil, knowing no fear of injury. She did—however—have an amusing fear of the large Disney characters walking about the park. “Scawy” was her routine response whenever Mickey or Donald or Pluto came up to charm her. She wanted nothing more than to get on the Teapot ride one more time. Genevieve was less enthusiastic than Camille for the rides but was a follower and tagged along behind her vivacious identical twin obediently. She was—however—by far the more gregarious one of the pair, and was the one that worried her watchful grandmother the most. The pretty little curly-haired tow-head did not know the concept of stranger and went about blithely engaging total strangers in her two year old conversations and making them laugh. She raced away from Rosie at every opportunity and started talking to the first person she met: hippies, tattooed hip-hoppers, elderly men in wheel chairs, blue-haired over dressed matrons from Poughkeepsie, black people, South Americans, Africans, Catholic priests, Mormon missionaries, harried young mothers. The child was incorrigible, and her enthusiastic little face captivated almost everyone she encountered.

  The family enjoyed a respite from the constant activity by going on Disney’s Family Magic Tour of the Magic Kingdom, a two hour guided tour which was contrived as an inter-active quest to save Magic Kingdom theme park from the dastardly plans and bumptious actions of the day’s Disney villain. The children were delighted by the tricky clues, rather transparent diabolical puzzles, and the zany scavenger hunt. As noon approached, Rosie was feeling the need to sit, and she wanted little more than to get to the Crystal Palace and sip a big Diet Pepsi until everyone else was seated and the vivacious young waiters and waitresses served the child-favored junk food to the young ones and a large Greek salad for her. The diet drink and the salad were orders from her internist because she was getting a substantial middle-aged spread. Her curves were becoming slopes; she was getting wrinkles where here laughlines once were; and, horror-of-horrors, she was beginning to see grey hair—silver threads among the gold.

  Evan and Daniel, Jr. got along famously, and Evan took very careful care of his younger cousin. After the tour, Marie and Donna had only to sit on the park benches and keep a watchful eye on the two boys in their detective hats as they raced from one thrill ride to another. The day was balmy with clear skies and a gentle sun. It was a rare opportunity for the two young women to share confidences, family gossip, and concerns about their husbands’ burgeoning careers, their sex lives, their worries about getting fat, what they were going to wear to the adults only dinner that night—everything except religion and politics. Their sisterhood—or more accurately—their deep cousinhood, required tight lips about those subjects.

  Both had to stifle deeply held sentiments, but each knew better than to broach such subjects or even to let slip comments that called attention to their well-known differences of opinion. Donna did not mention evolution, and Marie did not give in to her roiling desire to proselytize her heartfelt Mormon religious convictions. They were as physically different as they were philosophically. Donna was blond, firm, slim, and animated. Marie was soft, even voluptuous. She had black hair and enough of a Mediterranean look to be taken for an Italian. Donna displayed a good bit of skin and a tattoo of Hermes—the messenger of the Greek gods—on her left shoulder, and had two piercings in each ear. Marie wore long sleeve, high neck, ankle-length dresses and hardly wore make-up let alone a tattoo or a piercing—God forbid—which made Donna think of pioneers or fundamentalists, a thought that never passed her lips.

  “Oh, good, it’s quarter of,” Donna observed.

  “The boys have had enough. At least, I’ve had enough, let’s hie ourselves to the Crystal Palace and pig out on a bunch of transfats and diet drinks,” laughed Marie.

  The cousin-friends each took her son in hand
and started walking across Adventure Land towards the restaurant. They kept a sharp look out for Rosie—the universally beloved family matriarch and ever generous grandmother. Each young woman thought what a perfect day it was: carefree, safe, fun, and nondemanding. They were both hungry, and a big chilled macaroni salad, barbecue chicken and overloaded meat sandwiches seemed like the crowning quest to top off a delightful easy morning.

  Hunter looked up from his laptop, and the time registered on him. It was eleven-fifteen; and he had not even showered yet. He reluctantly put away his work and locked the laptop with its serious corporate and governmental secrets in the special safe that the hotel had provided. He shaved and showered quickly, put on a loud flowered Hawaiian shirt, khaki cargo shorts, and sandals—‘Jesus boots’, he called them frequently enough to warrant a disapproving glance from his overcharged religious son—admired himself in the mirror, and laughed at the shirt that he would not have been caught dead in back home. It was quarter to noon when he rushed out of the front door of the hotel and caught the shuttle.

  Rosie and her daughter and daughter-in-law met up with the Swensons and their four rambunctious children who ranged in age from three to eleven and were all handfuls even by their doting parents’ admissions.

  “How are you, birthday girl?” Rosie asked, kneeling to give a hug to the precocious elfin girl, Abby, whose birthday they were about to celebrate.

  “I’m good,” she said. “I’m fwee years old today. It’s my birfday!”

  “We all have really fun presents for you, sweetie,” Donna said beaming at the friendly little busy-body.

  “I wike pwesents,” Abby declared as if it would be news to her listeners.

  “Where’s Hunter?” Bob Swenson asked Rosie as they looked for their reserved tables.

  Evan was teasing the twins.

  “Evan, stop that,” Marie said. “We’ve got enough noise and chaos in here without you adding to it.”

  Evan sneaked one more rib tickle on Camille, then obeyed.

  Daniel, Jr. proudly announced that he had found their names on the tables, and the two families trouped to find their places. The children of the two families intentionally intermingled so as to sit by their friends. Rosie sat by Janice Swenson who was looking pretty worn from her morning’s duties of herding the “crazies”, as she affectionately referred to her children. She and Rosie were both genuinely relieved to be able to sit and to bring each other up on the latest in their families. Rosie and Janice were as alike in their attitudes, aptitudes, and preferences as two sisters could be. Rosie was the quintessential mainstream WASP, and Janice was an African-American choir director in her AME church. Neither was all that religious; so, they got along splendidly. Race did not enter into it.

  Donna sat by her brother, Daniel, Sr., after he had complained to her that she hadn’t said a word to her since they had all arrived in Orlando.

  “You prejudiced against Mormons, little sister?”

  “Get over yourself, little brother, and tell me what’s new in the secret dark corporate world nowadays.”

  Bob Swenson left a vacant chair for Hunter.

  Rosie said, “He’ll be here on the dot. He’s nothing if not punctual, you know. It’s because he was toilet trained too early.”

  Winnie the Pooh brought the children lemonades, and they all settled down to enjoy the unhealthy sweet drinks.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Hunter showed his pass at the entry bar of the Magic Kingdom, submitted to the cursory security inspection, and passed through the uplifted entrance bar and into the amusement park at seven minutes to noon. He walked briskly up Main Street, U.S.A. dodging the crowds. He rounded a gentle curve past the souvenir boutique and could see the Crystal Palace restaurant directly ahead. He would make it almost on the dot, and Rosie would not be able to give him the standard lecture on tardiness. Hunter watched as Pooh and Friends characters busily moved in and out of the entrance of the restaurant and scurried around among the seated guests. Hunter could see only one other person entering the pavilion. Odd—it was a very warm noontime—but the man was wearing a long coat—probably one of the strolling performers.

  Ten seconds and ten yards closer, the pavilion disappeared in a clap of thunder unlike Hunter had ever heard or seen even in his military experience. The concussion of the blast lifted the two-hundred pound man and hurled him twenty feet away from the explosion. He crashed into a display rack of sombreros, sarapes, and Mickey Mouse hats, upending it. He was aware of being unable to hear despite seeing the expressions on people’s faces that indicated screaming. He was also aware of intense heat which seemed to emanate from the foot deep pile of sarapes covering him. The last thing he saw was a mushroom shaped cloud, an indelibly familiar configuration which seemed altogether dream-like; then his vision went white; and he lost consciousness.

  Hunter had brief moments of semi-consciousness during which he was dimly aware of needle punctures, the irritation of a catheter in his penis, of voices lifted in argument about when he would be able to talk, and of the clatter, hum, and smell of a hospital. For the most part he was unconscious, and only later he began to sleep. As he began to arouse, he became aware of the characteristic tick-tock hum of a cardiac monitor. As his consciousness began to increase, Hunter started to become restless and uncomfortable from a sphygmomanometer cuff on his arm, from the now out-right painful Foley catheter, and from being tied down. At times he panicked. He was back in the jungles of Viet Nam, tied down, and being tortured. He tried to shout out his name, rank, and serial number; but he knew that he was not making sounds. Finally, he furtively attempted to open his eyes but could not. The crack of vision he could muster was black, coal mine shaft black. He sank into despair knowing that he was alive and blind. The pain in his penis caused him to think that he had stepped on a brown-betty mine and was emasculated. He frantically tried to move his fingers and toes and strong hands held him down. He felt a warm flush in his vein, and sleep intruded once more.

  After another long sleep, Hunter again gradually became aware of his body, then of the room, then of a hand on his shoulder. This time he remained quiet, having learned his lesson from the consequences of his previous outburst.

  “Hi, I’m your doctor, Mr. Caulfield. I’m Dr. Risotti, one of Orlando Regional Medical Center’s hospitalists.”

  “Hello, doctor, I’m Hunter Caulfield. But I guess you already know that.”

  “Yes, sir, I do. I have been taking care of you for the last eight days.”

  “Eight?”

  “’Fraid so. You had quite an experience, my friend. What do you remember about what happened?”

  “Not much. I was headed towards one of the Disney World theme restaurants to have lunch with my family. I heard a huge blast, felt like I had been hit by a cannon ball, saw a brilliant fireball and a mushroom shaped cloud, and that’s about it.”

  “You were blown backwards some twenty or so feet and knocked a clothes rack over you. The clothes fell on you and covered you up; so, you didn’t get burned to a crisp. You did get a pretty severe head injury. The neurosurgeons opened your skull and took out a blood clot called a subdural hematoma. They saved your life. You have been over a week in coming around, but you’re going to do okay.”

  “I’ve got a couple of questions, doc.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Have my wife and kids or grandkids been by to see me? Were they upset seeing me all bandaged up and all of the tubes and stuff?”

  “I’m sorry Mr. Caulfield, but I really don’t know anything about your family. The city has been all but overwhelmed by the casualties from the explosion. I’ll have to try and find out what I can about your family.”

  “Thanks.”

  “It’s the least I can do.”

  “I have another couple of questions, Dr. Risotti.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Will I always be blind? Did my pecker get blown off?”

  The questions were so matter-of-factly put that it gave Dr
. Risotti a start.

  “Oh, that’s right. No, no, you’re not blind. We just haven’t taken off the eye patches while you were awake. Your eyes got a flash burn, and we were protecting them and giving them a rest. Here, I think that’s one concern we can get out of the way in a flash. And your penis is fine; it just has a catheter in it. All men hate catheters.”

  The young doctor quickly removed the taped on eye patches, and light poured into Hunter’s sore eyes. He blinked and squeezed his eyes tightly closed and began to struggle with his wrist restraints.

  “Hold on. I’ll untie your hands.”

  The straps required a key, and Dr. Risotti had to leave to get one from the nurse’s station. He undid the restraints and rubbed Hunter’s wrists.

  “Thanks.”

  “Sure. Sorry to have had to use them, but the last time we undid them, we thought we had hold of a wounded mountain lion. We weren’t sure until right now whether we’d be safe to try it again.”

  “Sorry.”

  “No problem, just glad to have you back.”

  “I’m pretty sore. How about giving me the unvarnished version of what’s broken, what’s not working, and what’s my prognosis.”

  “Nothing broken. Everything’s working fine, at least I’ll be sure about that once we get the Foley catheter out, but I don’t expect any problems.”

  “Can’t be too soon.”

  “And your prognosis is well-nigh perfect. You’re in great shape, just bruised up pretty badly. If you don’t mind me saying so, it looks like you’ve had more than your share of injuries. I have never seen anybody with more scars than you’ve got.”

  Hunter grew quiet.

  “I guess some of what I see was from a pretty bad time. I don’t mean to harrow up bad memories, Mr. Caulfield; and my questions are more than morbid curiosity. I need to know something of what you’ve been through to be able to give you the most informed care.”