by Julie Cave
There was no Senate debate about this decision, one of the positives about the reconciliation process. The conservatives sat, whispering to each other, knowing that something was amiss.
Then it was simply a matter of the Senate voting and the majority winning. The absolute best part of reconciliation, thought David Winters, was that it prohibited a filibuster — which allowed a minority of 41 senators to block legislation.
So the vote was held — and Winters achieved 51 votes. It was done.
The Health Reform Bill, including the provision that allowed euthanasia to gain an unprecedented foothold, was passed.
After midnight, when the Senate disbanded, Senator Winters found a quiet corridor and immediately phoned the leader of the Movement, Eddie Sable. "It's all done," he said, when the other man answered, still half-asleep.
Sable perked up. "The bill has been passed in the Senate?"
"Yes, tonight. I expect the money to appear in my account in the morning," Winters said.
Sable laughed. "Of course. I must say, there were times when I thought even you wouldn't be able to pull this off."
"You shouldn't underestimate me," said the senator softly. "That would be a very bad idea."
Sable didn't seem to hear him. He enthusiastically went on, "We all honestly thought it would be a long shot."
"Sable, just wire me the money. You understand?" said Senator Winters frostily and hung up.
He turned to leave and almost walked into the giant bulk of Senator Jerry Devine.
"Excuse me," he snapped.
Devine gave him a lazy smile. "I should've known you didn't do it for purely political reasons," he said. He stood slightly taller than Winters and used it to his advantage as he glared at the other man.
"What are you talking about?" Winters asked, using all of his energy to sound disinterested.
"Who's paying you this time?" Devine wanted to know.
"I still don't know what you're talking about." Winters looked coolly at his counterpart.
Jerry Devine snorted. "Okay, so I'm supposed to believe it's not unusual for a United States Senator who crams through a Health Reform Bill that will change the entire scope of American health care under the reconciliation process — which is highly unusual and somewhat improper in my opinion — and then calls a mystery person immediately afterward in the middle of the night to demand money. Gee, I know I'm just a Texan, but even I can tell that something ain't right here."
Winters suppressed an urge to punch the senator in the nose, just as he used to do at the exclusive boys' school where he reigned supreme as the class bully.
"How do you know I wasn't talking to my wife?" he said calmly. "You sure do jump to some wild conclusions, Devine. In any case, you'll have to prove any accusation you make, and I'd like to see that."
Devine just smiled. "Guess you'd better watch your back, Winters."
They smiled icily at each other, and then Devine lumbered off down the hallway.
Winters actually felt a stab of fear. A threat from a United States senator, even a conservative Texan, was not to be treated lightly.
He began to think. It was virtually impossible to simply get rid of Devine. Had he been a normal member of society, then perhaps he'd get away with it. Annoyingly, when a senator died under unusual circumstances, the government liked to organize investigations and inquiries.
However, Edward Sable and the members of the Movement were held under no such protection. And if the money was ever traced, it would be because they hadn't been discreet enough.
A plan began to form in Winters' mind. He didn't like them anyway; they were a means to an end. Once they'd wired him the money, he would forever be tied to them, with the possibility of blackmail hanging over his head. He remembered the idea he'd once had of burning that stupid log cabin where they met to the ground. The idea appealed to him. It would be a tragic, terrible accident. He smiled and left the building with a renewed sense of confidence.
****
Ella Barnett had emerged from paralyzing shock and had now moved to anger. She was mute with fury and so she completed the tasks required of her silently, seething. She couldn't stand living in the same house as a man whom she'd thought of as a hero her whole life, only to find out it was all a lie, and worse, that he was the complete opposite of a hero.
She continued to help him dress, bathe him, make his meals, and ensure he was safe. But she no longer engaged him with speech or song, as she once had. She answered his questions with terse monosyllables. Though in all honesty, he probably didn't notice. Her anger had transcended the frustration that caused her to lash out only a few weeks before — she was now icily calm, to the point of scaring those who knew her. The devastating sadness had passed, leaving behind a fury that was terrible in its complete consumption of her.
She'd found a nursing home that had agreed to take her father on short notice. The cost was astonishingly astronomical, but she agreed. Then she phoned her brother, Micah, to tell him.
"I've found a home for Dad," she informed him, her words curt.
"What?" he said. "I thought we'd agreed that the best place for him was at home."
"That was before I knew he was a child-abusing, sadistic freak," replied Ella, her voice brittle and high-pitched.
There was a loud crash as Micah dropped the phone, then silence. Finally, he said in a strangled voice, "What on earth are you talking about?"
Ella told him, with a choice selection of verbs, what she had discovered about their father.
There was more silence as Micah tried to digest this information. "I can't believe it," he said. "Our father? I just can't believe it."
"Well, yesterday I sat in the living room with two detectives who'd read the story themselves," said Ella. "So believe it."
"This book you read; what's it called again?" Micah asked.
"The Lost Boys. In it, you'll find a fascinating collection of games our father invented to torment the boys in his care by pitting them against each other," explained Ella. Her voice, on the edge of breaking with every word, was the indication of her boiling, raging fury, together with the unusual sarcasm that was not normally part of her personality. "Followed by explanations of wonderfully creative punishments our father invented, including solitary confinement for boys under the age of ten. And you won't be able to put down the section that deals with the involuntary sterilization of teenagers!"
After a pause, Micah said carefully, "Are you okay, Ella?"
"I'm perfectly wonderful," she retorted. "Why do you ask?"
Micah wanted to answer that his gentle, unassuming, mild sister had turned into an angry, sarcastic, bitter person whom he'd never met before. But he could understand why she wasn't doing so well. "I'll come out as soon as I can," he promised. "I'll help you settle Dad in and we can …talk. About, you know …well, we'll just talk."
"Sounds delightful," Ella said.
She spent the next few hours packing what her father would need for his new home, according to the list the nursing home had given her. Once, she might have approached this task with care and concern, wanting to include things that might comfort him. Now, she threw it all together with hapless abandon, barely even registering what she was doing.
When she had finished packing, she strapped her father into the car and loaded it with his suitcases. He asked her where they were going. She didn't reply.
Once they'd arrived at Bentleigh Episcopalian Nursing Home, she took her father to the reception and announced their arrival. One nurse helped John Barnett into a wheelchair and took his suitcases to settle him into his new room. The other nurse gave Ella the paperwork to fill out. She looked at Ella's stony face and her fragile words, and asked, "Are you okay?"
Ella glanced up from the clipboard. "I'm just wonderful." She smiled a fake, disturbing grimace. The nurse backed away.
Ella finished the paperwork with ruthless efficiency, and the nurse then showed her to the room where her father now sat in an armchair,
watching television.
Ella looked through the closets and drawers to make sure everything had been put away correctly. She sat on the bed, to make sure it was comfortable. She checked that her father could access the dining room and game room easily. She checked that there were no stairs nearby to fall down or windows from which to climb out. She checked that the nursing station would be able to hear him if he fell or needed them in some way.
Finally, when there was nothing left to do, she looked at John Barnett. He was engrossed in I Love Lucy. She chewed on her lip, and then said, "I've got to go, Dad. Are you okay here?"
He looked up at her. "I'll come home later, dear," he said.
She thought of telling him that he wouldn't be coming home, but then decided it wasn't her problem anymore. She knew that she should kiss him or at least give him a hug, but she couldn't bring herself to do that. So she simply waved at him and left. She nodded to the nurses on the way out who exchanged puzzled glances.
In the car, she drove in the opposite direction to her house. She drove to Fort Stevens Park, where the picnic tables and walking tracks were deserted mid-week. She parked her car and made sure that all the windows were rolled up. Then Ella threw back her head and screamed at the roof of the car, a wild howl full of the emotion she'd been reserving for a week. She pounded the steering wheel in rage. And finally, the tears came. She sobbed like she hadn't since she'd been a small child.
When she had calmed down slightly, she stared through the windshield unseeing. What was she going to do with the disgust and guilt and hatred that festered in her heart like open sores? How could she think of her family in the same way again? How could she even begin to deal with this colossal betrayal?
****
Dinah stood at the picture window in her living room, looking down at the street. From this vantage point, she could see cars as they swept along and people who might approach her apartment building. In the past, when her depression had been at its zenith, she'd fantasized that she could transport herself into becoming one of the people walking along the street, or joining one of the families in the cars that drove by. Anything, she'd reasoned, had to be better than the world in which she'd existed.
Such dark thoughts were kept largely at bay these days, though recently they'd been replaced by other negative thoughts. The case was affecting her, because the message the killer sought to tell was so personal.
She saw Detective Cage's car turn into the street and drive cautiously, searching for a parking space. Dinah laughed to herself. Other detectives might park illegally, reasoning that they were on police business, but not Detective Cage. He seemed to follow the rules absolutely.
Dinah watched Cage finally find a spot, then climb out of the car and approach the front doors of her apartment building. When he buzzed, she let him in.
The first thing Cage wanted to look at was the threatening card Dinah had received from the killer. He stared at it carefully, turning the generic sympathy card over, reading it several times.
"So listen," he said, at length. "Are you still convinced as to the identity of the killer?"
"Yes," said Dinah emphatically. "Are you?"
Cage held up a sheaf of papers. "Here is the search warrant."
Dinah felt a familiar thrill course through her veins. "Then let's get him!"
They walked down to the unmarked police vehicle, talking about how they would execute the warrant. Detective Cage had organized for the uniforms to meet them at the house in which the killer lived. A search warrant was a huge task and needed many hands, but more importantly, the uniforms would make sure that the killer couldn't escape.
Dinah climbed into the car and waited for Detective Cage to buckle up and start the engine. Then she suddenly felt the cold steel kiss from the mouth of a gun press behind her ear. Her stomach dropped and turned cold, and she stiffened, eyes wide.
Cage glanced over her quizzically, and then saw the gun. He jerked around in the seat, trying to simultaneously reach for the gun and lunge at the killer, but he was hampered by his seat belt.
"Easy, tiger," said a familiar voice, soothingly. "You try and touch me, your pretty companion will get a bullet into her pretty brain."
Cage relaxed slightly and held his hands up to indicate he understood.
"Give me your gun," instructed the killer, still as calmly as if they were discussing something they'd watched on television.
Cage complied. Dinah wanted to turn around, to face her attacker, to match the voice to the name. The killer seemed to sense this. "You know who I am?" he sneered. "You want to look?"
Dinah clenched her teeth. "I know who you are."
"Well, you don't really know me," he said. "You know a character I've been playing. So turn around. Just don't try anything stupid."
Dinah turned to look at the killer and saw that her instincts had been right. She was looking into the cool, gray-blue eyes of Dr. Nelson Sharp. He looked very different to the dapper university professor he'd portrayed during their research. He no longer wore trendy glasses, for one thing. Dinah realized that the trendy glasses had stopped her from realizing that his eyes were indeed cold and flat and unusual, more silvery-gray than blue, as described by various witnesses. His dark hair was no longer fashionably spiked, and the expensive clothing had been replaced by nondescript jeans and T-shirt. They were only cosmetic changes, but he did look very different from the person they'd met at the university.
"So," said Sharp, "where were you headed just now?"
"Just down to police headquarters," Cage said casually. "We were going over some evidence."
Sharp snorted contemptuously. "Do I look like an idiot?"
Cage didn't reply. Sharp suddenly pressed the gun harder against Dinah's head, forcing her forward.
"Do I look like an idiot?" he repeated.
"No," muttered Cage.
"So I don't think you were going to police headquarters," said Sharp. "Anyway, it doesn't matter. We'll be alone where we're going." Dinah prayed that this would be Sharp's home, where half a dozen police cars waited for them. However, as Cage followed Sharp's instructions, it became clear they wouldn't be going to Sharp's home. They headed in the opposite direction, to the same part of the city where Sharp trained with martial arts teacher Ricky Srisai.
Dinah's heart sank as she stared out at the neighborhood. Any people on the streets in these parts wouldn't be particularly bothered that a cop and an ex-FBI agent were in danger. Nor would they feel inclined to call for help.
We are truly on our own, thought Dinah bleakly, except, perhaps, for divine intervention.
Sharp had Cage stop the car outside a small industrial building. He opened the roller door with a remote control and then instructed Cage to drive inside.
It was very dark inside the building and Dinah blinked frantically, trying to understand their surroundings. It didn't seem to be set up for a business. There were some industrial tools and some furniture scattered around the bare concrete space. "Welcome to my workshop," said Dr Sharp, motioning the two investigators out of the car.
Dinah realized that the workshop probably contained tins of polyurethane furniture finish and that this was where the flakes found in the van and on the body of Ashleigh Colter had originated.
Sharp turned on a bright overhead fluorescent light and motioned the two investigators to sit down on two bare pine chairs.
He smiled at them jovially. "Here is where you will die."
Chapter 20
So you're the big man, are you?" demanded Dinah, her tone like vinegar. "Choosing weak, vulnerable victims who can't fight back!"
Sharp just laughed. "You could just call me evolution's best friend. I help speed things along when the natural process takes too long."
"Why should you have that power in your hands?" Dinah asked.
"Why shouldn't I? I am one of the stronger of my species," replied Sharp. "I'm free of ill-health, educated, self-reliant. I'm an example of what the human race should be."
>
"Man, there is something really wrong with you," said Cage, shaking his head.
Sharp's calm veneer slipped a tiny bit and the expression of pure rage and hatred Dinah saw there for a nanosecond made her go cold all over.
"You must have thought it was hilarious that we were coming to you to get advice on the killer, knowing all along that it was you," said Dinah. "Did that give you some sick pleasure?"
"It was ironic," agreed Sharp, his slate eyes glinting. "But yes, I did find it amusing."
"Was it amusing to get rid of your victims? Did you laugh as you stood over the bodies of Lakeisha, Benjamin, Ashleigh, and Billy?" Cage asked.
Sharp looked intently, seriously, at the detective. "No, I derive no pleasure from the killings. I didn't do it for myself. I did it for the good of society."
"I know you're dying to tell us," Dinah said dryly. "What do you mean, the good of society?"
Sharp stood and began to walk around the workshop rubbing his hands together. "You might be interested to know that my father was a guard at the Albans Orphanage Asylum."
"With John Barnett?" Cage guessed.
"Right. Barnett taught him everything," Sharp said. "My father was a willing student. And they had legislation on their side, of course. My father helped carry out the sterilizations of those boys. He passed what he learned down to me."
"Charming," muttered Cage.
"They were right, you know," announced Sharp. "My father went on to become a guard at the Wallens Ridge State Prison. He had all of his beliefs cemented while he was there, believe me. That prison was full of some of the most uneducated, imbecilic, drug-addled sorry excuses for human beings you'll see anywhere. My father believed society is better to get rid of them rather than waste resources keeping them locked up."
That's the difference, thought Dinah. John Barnett had become a Christian at some point, and his faith had taught him that human beings all have intrinsic value and worth. Sharp's father, the one she'd seen in the photograph of the guards in The Lost Boys, had in the midst of the bleakest conditions sunk deeper into his vile theories.
"So what stopped him from bumping off a prisoner here and there?" Dinah asked sarcastically.