The Cure

by Freddie Villacci Jr

  How could they even know the mayor was coming to visit her that day? They hadn’t publicized the visit. The fact that her captors hadn’t bothered to blindfold her meant they probably intended to kill her, but her still being alive meant they needed her for something.

  But what?

  She imagined herself reading some terrible propagandist’s creeds at gunpoint in a live internet feed, begging for her life right before they executed her in front of the whole world. The corners of her eyes started to water and she had to blink back the forming tears.

  She couldn’t get caught up in what hadn’t happened yet.

  Instead, she turned her focus to what she knew and what she could deduce. The only thing she’d concluded was that this thing—whatever the hell it was—had been methodically planned. The confident execution of the strike proved that. From the second they’d entered her building to the moment they left the disaster site, there was zero confusion among them—save for a momentary lapse in the van right before the explosion. That notwithstanding, they must be following a script.

  No one had eaten or drunk anything since the explosion. The only change was that the men in the front seats of the vehicle had put on Green Bay Packers hats and sunglasses when they were driving through Wisconsin, and when they crossed the border, they’d switched to Minnesota Twins caps—simple disguises, but effective enough.

  She asked herself, how many damn caps do they have?

  Minutes after crossing the border into South Dakota, they finally exited the highway onto a narrow dirt road. On both sides of the road, rows of mustard yellow soybean plants stretched as far as the eye could see—so far it almost seemed as if the plants reached up into the sky and touched the white, puffy clouds at the horizon, where sporadic beams of sunlight pierced random gaps in the overcast, tinting the sky in shades of violet, gold, and purple.

  After a couple of miles of bumping down the road, they pulled up to an old farmhouse surrounded by massive oaks and evergreens. The density of the trees and their thick branches hid the house well. From a distance, one might think it was just another of the dozens of copses that dotted the soybean fields.

  The redhead seated next to her pulled out a box cutter and jutted it playfully in her face, letting forth little wordless chuckles as she flinched and squeaked in response. Then he uttered something in a lascivious tone and cut her free from the captain’s chair, leaving her arms zip-tied behind her.

  The four men escorted her up the front porch. The typical white-painted, wooden turn-of-the-century farmhouse was well-built and had character, but showed signs of wear, mostly due to its age. It was a run-of-the-mill country home, complete with an unlocked front door with peeling apple red paint.

  This front door opened into a shabby living room. The leader flipped on the light switch at the entrance, and a dark wood blade ceiling fan with a dome light spun to life, lighting a small, sparsely furnished space. They forced Gracie into a sitting position on the sofa along the wall, opposite an old tube-backed TV in the corner and a large picture window directly across from her. It was nearly dusk. The only things Gracie could see outside were the scattered trees that hid the home from anyone who didn’t already know it was there.

  The redhead joined her on the couch. Once again, he smiled that disgusting smile of his and uttered the same filthy sentiments in the same filthy tone. Gracie could see the dark metal butt of his gun poking out of his underarm holster, the instrument of death that had taken the lives of Alice and Steve earlier that day. How many other fragile existences had been extinguished by this thing?

  The leader turned on the TV to crackle of static, and a minute later, a picture faded in. It was clear that there was no cable, as he played with the silvery V-shaped antenna in the rear of the television to clarify the snowy image. After a couple of attempts, the screen cleared up enough to pick up KDLT News on NBC out of Sioux Falls. The three men stood with their arms crossed, staring intently, waiting to see the results of their work.

  It was no surprise to Gracie to see that there was special ongoing news coverage of the terrorist attack. The news anchor recapped the horrific details in scattershot newsworthy improv.

  The scene cut to an aerial photo of Gracie’s building. The entire structure had been cratered. All that remained was a stark pile of blackened, smoldering debris partially collapsed into the foundation.

  As the shot continued, the anchor spoke off-camera: “Again, it has been confirmed that Chicago Mayor Charles Linstrom is one of eleven dead in the aftermath of the horrific explosion at the former site of Greentech Laboratories, a biotech start-up firm. And we do have word that the White House has confirmed this to be an act of terrorism. They confirmed it about one hour ago. We are as yet awaiting a statement by the President, we are told…”

  Her mind raced at this point. Whoever knew her undoubtedly thought she was dead. She sprung back to attention when her own face—a photo taken from her company’s website—flashed up on the screen.

  “And we want to reiterate, we are getting word now that the woman you see here, Dr. Grace Green, the owner of Greentech, was involved in the plot. Sources at the CIA have confirmed discovery of a series of encrypted emails that reveal Dr. Green’s ties to ISIS, and that the attack on Mayor Linstrom was in fact a coordinated hit. Apparently, the biotech firm was something of a front, a shell company created and operated, uh, for the sole purpose of maintaining a headquarters for ISIS. Excuse me, we’re getting word that the CIA has traced all the funding for Greentech—am I reading this right? —yes, to a single source, an overseas account confirmed to originate from a known terrorist sponsor. We’ll have more word on that as details emerge and more of course on this operative known as Dr. Grace Green…”

  Cold washed over her as the blood drained from her cheeks. Gracie fought to not puke and pass out simultaneously. She felt the sting of salty heat in her eyes. Her mind clouded with pain, stabbing for answers.

  9

  Michaelson’s Auto Salvage just outside of D.C. looked like the parking lot for the Apocalypse. The sun had begun to dip, tainting the abandoned heaps with the color of hopelessness.

  Jaco Ivanov flicked a bit of lint off his cuff as he strode through the lot. What a wasteland. Hoods gaped at him like toothless mouths. He sneered back in disgust.

  One vehicle stood out among the wreckages, parked within a stack of junkers as if they themselves had made room for it—a black Suburban with tinted windows, which flashed its headlights at once, as if he wouldn’t have known otherwise that this was the car. Idiots. Why don’t they just put an ad on Facebook?

  He had barely lifted himself into the front seat and closed the door when Peter Rains started in on him.

  “Are you out of your blasted mind? The mayor of Chicago? What the heck is wrong with you?”

  “I thought it was executed flawlessly… as they say; Problemy resheny” Jaco returned. “Problem solved. You’re welcome.”

  Rains could barely get the words out without spitting first. “Execut—You psycho! You orchestrated an ISIS terrorist attack on U.S. soil.”

  “I removed the mayor of Chicago, is what I did. Besides, there’s oversight there.”

  Rains clenched his fists. “Assassinated him, you sadistic monster!”

  Jaco pointed at the man’s hands. “I’d watch myself there, friend. And the labor was free, by the way. Moreover, it gave cause to the explosion. If there was no cause, it would have drawn a different type of attention. Now, thanks to yours truly, the story is about a terrorist attack and not about the out-of-the-blue destruction of a promising new cancer drug company. Now, the leader of said company is a deplorable terrorist—ahem, not yours truly, thank you—and said company was a front. Personally, I think it was an elegant solution and I haven’t heard one word of thanks from you, Peter.”

  “There are certain lines you don’t cross.” Peter said, jabbing a shaky finger at the air.

  “You mean it’s acceptabl
e to murder your friend’s competitors, but taking out any part of the good ol’ boy network is off limits, yeah? I guess all those poor people who will suffer and die from cancer every year are within limits?”

  “Linstrom was a good friend. And he was important to us.”

  Jaco tried not to smirk but couldn’t hold it back. “Not anymore.”

  Peter stared at him for a long moment before the light dawned. “Oh, I should have known,” he growled, his voice rich with loathing.

  “Yeah, you should have.”

  “You petty amateur. You killed Linstrom for what he did to your special ops team in ‘10 when he worked for the White House.”

  “Like I said, an elegant solution.”

  “I thought you were a professional. Professionalism takes precedence over petty crap that happened years ago.”

  “Depends on your definition of petty.” Jaco figured he had toyed with Rains enough. “Alright, let’s get down to business. Have you seen the news lately?”

  “Of course,” Rains snapped.

  “How about the intelligence flying throughout the agencies?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, then. Let me ask you, is everything working perfectly?”

  “That’s not my point.”

  “It’s exactly the point, Peter. Why are you so blind to the outcome? You can tell the powers that line your pockets that my methods work to everyone’s advantage. Yes, including mine, but above all, to theirs.”

  Rains looked away, hand on the steering wheel, and let out a deep breath. “What’s the exit strategy?”

  “The terrorists are holed up at a farmhouse in South Dakota. They’re going to execute the girl at five AM. You’re going to get some intel across your desk. You send some of your CIA boys on the lead, then alert the FBI. We raid the house and kill everyone in the firefight 30 minutes before the FBI arrives. Terrorists killed, justice served, case closed.”

  “The girl?”

  “She’ll look like she was killed in the firefight alongside her fellow terrorists fighting for their cause—her time of death will be the same as her comrades. Again, everyone dead, no witnesses, not one clue leading to any other conclusion except terrorists caught and killed. Vengeance is ours, sayeth America, and the threat is gone. People will be rejoicing over their bacon and eggs, everyone gets their own apple pie.”

  “Anyone gets ahold of these terrorists or the girl before we do—”

  “Relax,” Jaco said with a dismissive wave. “We’re a day from closing this deal, then we can all go to the islands for the extended vacation.”

  “You’d better be right. No one can know we killed Linstrom—and I mean no one.”

  “The execution will continue like clockwork. Guaranteed.”

  “You’re smug and arrogant. You don’t even see your biggest weakness.” Rains shook his head.

  Jaco tilted his head at the insult. “Relax, Peter. Have a drink. Have two drinks.”

  Rains twisted his face in disgust. “Cut that smooth-cat indifference act with me. It’s fake and boring. Just don’t mess this up.”

  “I go where the money is, Peter, just like you. The difference: I show my face when I come to pick up my check.”

  Peter conceded a nod, acknowledging Jaco’s role in their arrangement. Then, brimming with self-congratulation, the men shook hands, and Jaco exited the Suburban.

  10

  The TV had been on all night: the same channel, the same horrific newsreel looping incessantly.

  Gracie had heard herself called a terrorist so many times now, and with such conviction, that she herself had begun to question the reality of her life’s work. After all, who invests all that money after just seeing a thesis paper with no lab research to back it up? Maybe terrorists? This was Rule Number One in medical research: a paper is just a paper. Don’t get caught up in the brilliance of an idea. Without experiments and replication, great ideas are fake gems.

  Plus, who was Bic but her biggest fan since she was five years old? He was her rock, but he wasn’t a scientist. That man could and would convince anyone to believe in her on the basis of love alone.

  Hunger gnawed at her stomach. Her throat was parched.

  The leader had been looking at his watch constantly since about four AM. According to the TV news, it was almost five o’clock now, and he seemed more anxious than before.

  Soon, she thought, someone would arrive for them. Some emissary from whatever head of state was responsible for the cell. She’d soon find herself living in captivity in some cave in the side of a Syrian mountain. The same ugly photo of her would be featured on the news daily—“the hunt continues…”— until the U.S. military hunted her down and killed her like the rabid dog they believed her to be.

  The leader looked at his watch again and spoke sharply to his soldiers. The short man turned off the TV, then he and the leader exited the room, leaving her alone with the redhead.

  Frowning furtively, this man removed the box cutter from his pocket. Gracie braced herself once again as she looked into the man’s dark, soulless eyes. He showed no emotion. She had no doubt that he could slit her throat without a second thought.

  The edge of the silvery blade would slice her like a scalpel. The man’s eyes widened as he noticed her regarding the knife.

  She looked at the front door, only 10 feet away from where she sat on the couch. Four quick strides, by her calculation. Her hands were zip-tied behind her back, which meant she’d have to spin around to turn the doorknob—if that was even possible.

  From the other room, the leader barked out orders, his voice impatient.

  The redhead turned and grabbed her by the shoulder. Apparently, all that her body had suffered in the last 20 hours had seriously diminished her reaction time. He thrust her forward. Her chest was now pressed against her knees. Her back and arms were completely exposed to him. Calmly, slowly, he moved behind her.

  She heard the slice and snap and her hands were suddenly free. Bending around her and smiling, the redhead intoned that same lascivious bit of jargon he had before while brandishing the box cutter.

  As he sat her back up, her arms dropped to her sides, full of the pins and needles of returning circulation. There were sharp pains in both shoulders from an entire night’s worth of restraint. Instinctively, she raised her hand to pull the sticky gray duct tape from her mouth. Her eyes locked on the redhead, waiting to see what would happen. He smiled at her, retracting the box cutter’s blade and placing it on the end table. He continued watching her. He wanted to see this, she thought. She’d try her best…

  She began to pull the corner of the tape off the right side of her face, pausing when it stung. She peeled the tape completely off, and gasped air through her mouth for the first time in over 20 hours.

  The man licked his lips, his eyes an emotionless sea of dead, light brown.

  The other three men entered the room then. The leader had a large glass of water and a slice of white bread. The clean-shaven young man had a change of clothes for her: a pair of jeans, a red Stanford T-shirt, and shoes, all in her size. In fact, they were her clothes, collected from her condo. She couldn’t believe it.

  The leader handed her the bread and placed the glass of water on the end table. Gracie, still sitting on the couch, looked up at him, her eyes full of questions. He pointed at the food and motioned to his mouth.

  She nodded quickly. A couple of bites were followed by a quick wash-down with the water, and she repeated the activity until both bread and water were gone. It could have been a five-course meal. Wonder Bread never tasted so good.

  The leader grabbed her by the arm and pulled her to a standing position. At five-ten, Gracie was taller than three of the men, but about the same height as the leader. He said something in Arabic, and the man with the folded stack of clothes handed them to her. The leader gabbled at her, obviously giving her instructions to change.

  When she took the clothes and star
ted to walk toward the bathroom, the leader grabbed her arm roughly while pointing for her to stay put.

  “Come on. You gotta be kidding,” she said, strengthened by the slight relief of her hunger and thirst.

  The man pointed at her and yelled again. He then looked at his watch pointedly. Gracie looked over at the news report. 4:55. She stayed put, eyes narrowed.

  The leader spoke again with the same aggressive tone, and the clean-shaven man yanked off her white lab coat.

  “Okay.”

  She quickly slipped out of her black slacks, grabbed the pair of jeans and slid them on sloppily. Whipped off her blouse and threw on the T-shirt. Sat down and put on her gym shoes.

  The short terrorist grabbed her old clothes and shoes off the dingy floor and went into the other room with them as the leader looked at his watch again. Then he snapped out another order. Gracie didn’t know the language, but she recognized the phrase. It had been etched into her brain forever: the same phrase the leader had barked out when he gave the order to kill first Steve, then Alice.

  The redhead stood in front of her, pulled his gun from his holster, and pointed it at Gracie’s head. Gracie couldn’t find a trace of empathy in his eyes. It seemed like, to him, this was just a transaction. The other three men around her backed away, stepping toward the front door behind them both. Clearly, they were moving out of the way to avoid any blood and brain spatter.

  There’s no point in screaming, she told herself as she looked up at the only source of light in the otherwise dark room—the dome light beneath the ceiling fan. Looking at that brightness, she prayed she would be lucky enough to soon see her mother in Heaven. A small sound escaped her throat involuntarily. She hated that they heard it.

  With the explosion of a loud gunshot, the light blinked out, and she wondered, for an instant, if she were already dead, as she felt a warm mist on her face. Not sure if she was wounded and still half alive, or completely dead and just having some sort of out-of-body experience, she watched what appeared to be happening in front of her in the pre-dawn grayness of the northern morning.