Mind in Chains

by Bruce M Perrin

  Before Rebecca could agree with him, Doc started shouting at someone else. “Get under something.”

  At first, she didn’t understand. And then, she recognized the sound of a clock striking in the background. One, two, three. Was this Prudence’s signal to set off the bomb? Four, five, six. Never had a clock chiming felt so slow. Seven, eight, nine. She pressed the phone to her ear harder, straining for the sound. Ten, eleven, twelve. And then, silence.

  Doc sighed loudly enough that Rebecca had no trouble hearing over the phone. “I don’t mind telling you, Agent Marte. This is no damn fun.”

  “I’ll see if I can get that clock turned off, just in case she’s waiting for one o’clock. How many people are trapped in the building?”

  “I don’t know exactly,” Doc replied. “Maybe a dozen, fifteen? I’ll get a better count.”

  Rebecca went through everything she had learned about hostage situations, hoping she had something to give Doc, but nothing fit. The hostages couldn’t make themselves seem “more human” to Prudence. She had no concept of humanity. They couldn’t sow seeds of discontent among the takers. Prudence wouldn’t understand anything that complex. In the end, the only tactic that was relevant was to wait her out. And that was fine unless the signal for the finale came before she tired.

  “OK, move as far from Prudence as you can,” Rebecca said. “Maybe you can find something heavy, like a desk to get under. Otherwise, just try to keep everyone calm, and if you come in contact with her, cooperate. The negotiators will do the rest.”

  “Will do, although I’m not sure they’ll find much in their playbook that will help with Prudence.”

  Rebecca nodded, even though Doc couldn’t see. He’d obviously considered his situation already and knew that negotiation was a hollow hope. She looked across the lawn. Clements and two other men were jogging toward her. “I have to go. We’re getting ready to break into Greenwood’s farmhouse. Good luck, Doc.”

  “Same to you, Agent Marte.”

  “Hey, Doc?” she said quickly.

  “Yes.”

  “Maybe it’s time you call me Rebecca.”

  “Talk to you soon, Rebecca.” He disconnected.

  When Clements and his cohorts arrived, he did the introductions. Both men had been trained in clearing buildings, and Clements quickly established their tactics. They formed two teams with an FBI agent on each. Each team would take a side of the house, preventing someone from getting behind them. One team member would search the room while the other provided cover. It was about as simple as it got, but the approach was complex enough for a group with different backgrounds, little time to prepare, and no time for practice.

  They approached the house in a crouched run, using cover whenever it was available. On the porch, the two teams took positions on either side of the door. Rebecca glanced over her shoulder. Her partner was standing back, dangerously close to a window. She grabbed his wrist and jerked him closer. When he realized what he had done, he grimaced, his face turning red. He rubbed the back of his neck, his eyes now tracking over the porch and lawn as if seeking other threats that he’d missed.

  The crack in his confidence was not what Rebecca wanted to see. She raised a hand for a fist bump, hoping it was a motion he’d recognize. It was, and he returned the gesture with a nod and a smile of grim determination. She returned the look.

  Clements scanned the faces of his breaching team, each member indicating his or her readiness. He stepped out from the wall, and in a smooth, fluid motion, he turned toward the house, planted his left foot, raised his right leg, and kicked the door near the knob. It exploded inward, followed closely by the hastily formed clearing team.

  12:27 PM – The Biomedical Engineering Associates Building

  “What the hell are the police doing out there?” the man asked.

  I thought the question was rhetorical, but one of Nicole’s coworkers believed otherwise. “I’m sure they’re doing everything they can,” she replied. “We just have to stay calm.”

  The thirteen of us—I now had an exact count—had congregated in a small break area about as far from Prudence as we could get. For the first few minutes of our captivity, everyone had their phone out, frantically calling law enforcement and loved ones. In fact, we had placed so many calls to the police that they had asked us to identify one “official phone” that we wouldn’t use. That way, they could call us should the need arise. So far, it hadn’t, leaving several of the group huddled around the device, staring like vultures waiting for a dying animal to collapse.

  The only other thing that was getting any attention was a small television set someone had brought out from an office. On it, we could see the street in front of the Biomedical Engineering Associates building, eerie because not a car was moving. There were police cars parked in a line, and occasionally, we caught sight of an officer or FBI agent scurrying behind the barricade, but otherwise, there was nothing to see. That fact, of course, didn’t keep the news reporter from talking nonstop.

  Initially, he had used the term, hostage situation. That was good news for us, as nearly 90 percent of those types of incidents end nonviolently. Then, it became known that the Crusaders were involved and phrases such as domestic terrorism, hate-motivated killing, and ritualistic execution came to the fore. In a matter of two minutes of commentary, we went from a nine in ten chance of walking away to all but dead already. We turned the television’s sound off, only to find it replaced by the drone from a hostage negotiator out on the street and the ringing of a phone in the building’s lobby.

  Nicole was sitting apart with a male coworker, and when he left, I went over to join her. “How you holding up?”

  She shrugged, the gesture saying it all. Earlier, I had told her everything I’d learned from Marte. It was a revelation that was weighing heavily on her mind.

  “I’m still having a hard time believing Laura would do this,” she said. “I thought we got along well, professionally and personally. Of course, now that I know, the way she finagled a dinner invitation seems obvious. Bologna sandwiches in her hotel room no less.”

  “What?” I didn’t follow the reference.

  Nicole just waved a hand at the question then asked one of her own. “How could I have been so wrong?”

  “It’s not just you,” I said. “This has been going on for at least three or four years for Constance to be as old as she was. Greenwood hid it from everyone.”

  “Everyone except Conroy,” Nicole added.

  “Maybe, although I wonder if he knew.” I started to explain my thoughts, mostly to have something to talk about besides our current predicament, but I stopped. Something was different. It took me a moment to realize what. It was quiet. The negotiator had stopped talking. The phone had stopped ringing. Then, the television’s picture disappeared.

  “They’ve shut off the power,” said Nicole. “I wonder if ….”

  She got no further as the “official” phone rang. With a half-dozen people standing around it, I thought someone would grab it before the echo of the first sound disappeared from the halls. But instead, everyone just stared. Now that there was news, no one was sure they wanted to hear it. Eventually, a man picked up. “You’ve got the hostages in the Biomedical Engineering Associates building,” he said. “You’re on speaker.” He pushed a button.

  “This is FBI Special Agent Stan Alban. We’re working with the local authorities to secure your release. Who am I talking to?”

  “Willy Bush,” said the man. “No relation to the famous St. Louis family by the same name. Not even spelled the same.” I doubted the agent cared who his relations weren’t, but I couldn’t fault the man. It was probably a line he used all the time, brought to his lips by the logic-crushing stress of our situation.

  “Good to meet you, Willy. How many of you are there?”

  “Thirteen. All here in a break area near the back of the building.”

  “Thirteen? You’re sure that’s an accurate count?”

&nb
sp; Bush looked around the group, everyone either shrugging or nodding. “Yeah. Pretty sure. We’ve checked.”

  “OK,” said Alban. “A group of people believed to be Crusaders has been arrested at a rural location. These people apparently don’t speak much at all. We think the same may be true of Prudence, but we’re still going to try to get her talking. I don’t have the building floor plan yet but should any moment. Can you tell me if you can see Prudence from where you are?”

  “No,” replied Bush. “Does that mean you don’t know where she is?” While there had been an undercurrent of nervousness in his tone before, his voice cracked with the question.

  “We’ll try thermal imaging of the building as soon as we can, but so far, she’s been very careful to stay out of sight,” Alban replied, matter-of-fact. “But even when we have that, anything you see, hear, or smell might help us.”

  “Smell?” said a woman standing nearby.

  “They could be important,” he replied but didn’t explain. “So, call at this number if you have anything. Otherwise, just stay calm, stay out of her way, and let us work the situation.”

  “Should we try to get a look at her?” asked Bush.

  Alban paused. He wasn’t going by the standard, hostage-negotiation playbook if he had to think about that question. I found the thought simultaneously comforting and chilling—comforting because the FBI knew that Prudence wasn’t the usual threat and chilling for the same reason. Finally, he said, “If you find yourself in a position to see what she’s doing, retreat to safety as soon as you can and then, give me a call. OK?”

  “Got it,” Bush replied.

  “Any other questions?” asked the agent. When he received none, he ended the call.

  “Well, that was a bunch of BS.” The comment was from the man who had just questioned what the police were doing. “Promises, but they aren’t doing crap.” His face was starting to turn red, his volume increasing. “Why the hell aren’t they better prepared?”

  Nicole and I were still standing by ourselves, and I glanced at her. “Gene Russo,” she whispered. The woman next to him reached a hand over and placed it on his shoulder. At first, I thought he might throw it off, but eventually, he dropped his glare and moved away from the group.

  Nicole stepped forward. “The people the police arrested?” she said in a voice that seemed a mere whisper after the man’s rant. “The Crusaders? They’re probably the product of research Dr. Laura Greenwood has been doing.”

  The tight circle around the phone opened, and Nicole, Russo, and I moved into the gap. Over the next couple of minutes, Nicole summarized Greenwood’s research. Then, she discussed the idea that the attempt on Greenwood’s life was a smokescreen, making her appear the victim rather than the perpetrator. Nicole finished with the possibility that Prudence was simply responding to signals in her surroundings.

  Somewhat surprising to me, every eye followed Nicole, every head nodded as she talked—even Russo’s. But then, if there was an assemblage who would understand the implications of Greenwood’s research, this was it. When Nicole finished, they only questioned the psychology—and they apparently knew the source of that bit of speculation. “How sure are you about this reaction to a signal idea?” The woman who asked was looking directly at me.

  “If Prudence, Justice, and the others are products of Greenwood’s research, then it’s extremely likely they’ve been trained with methods used with lower primates, like behavioral chaining. That’s not an airtight conclusion, but there aren’t many other options.”

  “OK,” said the woman. “I can accept that. What about the signal that Prudence is waiting for?”

  I glanced at Nicole, not really wanting to answer. “I don’t know. I do know the FBI is trying to get the clock stopped so it won’t chime again, just in case. But for all I know, she’s wearing a beeper. Or waiting for sundown.”

  “And there’s no way to stop the signal if we don’t know what it is,” said the woman.

  “Thanks for stating the obvious, Joan,” said Russo. He turned and walked away again. I was beginning to dislike the guy.

  “If we knew how she had been trained, we could give her the reinforcer now,” I said, thinking aloud. “She might believe the sequence is over. Or maybe we could get her to think she was no longer in a chain. We’d have to make her think she was in a different setting, someplace where her scripted actions didn’t apply—like back at Greenwood’s farm. The FBI is there now. Maybe we could get a call through to Agent Marte and she could describe it?”

  “Like the beach that’s there,” Nicole said. She was staring at some bags of concrete stacked in a corner, staying dry until they were needed for the lunch area project.

  Everyone turned to her. “Dr. Greenwood told us she’d recreated a Florida beach at her farm. Sand. Beach balls. Lounge chairs. The whole nine yards around a pool in her back yard. If we could build something like it, maybe we could confuse Prudence. You think, Sam?”

  “Yeah, it might work,” I replied. I raised a hand to the bags of concrete in case the rest hadn’t noticed the source of Nicole’s inspiration. “The concrete would look like sand—really white sand, but it should do. Let me try to get Marte.” I dialed, the call going directly to voicemail. “Sorry, no luck. But if we’re going to do this, we’ll need as many props as we can find.”

  “Jessica has that big ball she sits on sometimes in her office,” said the woman who had tried to comfort Russo earlier. “And I’ve got some potted plants that look tropical.”

  “Agent Alban said we shouldn’t approach Prudence,” said Russo.

  “No, Gene, he didn’t,” said Nicole sharply. “He said ….”

  Russo raised a hand to interrupt, wearing my already thin patience with the man even further. “You’re right, Nicole. He said report if we happened to get close, which just makes my offer to help build this beach a bit less dramatic than going against his wishes.”

  I replayed Russo’s words, wondering if I’d misunderstood. And when I was certain I hadn’t, my impression of the man did an about-face.

  “Look, I can’t just sit here until the sun sets or a black cat walks in front of the door or whatever she’s waiting for,” Russo said, looking around the faces staring at him. “I’m with Nicole and … what’s your name again.”

  “Doc,” said Nicole before I could react.

  “Ah, I hate to break up the party,” said a man who to this point had been silent. “I’m not comfortable with this whole idea. We don’t know what this beach looks like … or even if Dr. Greenwood actually built one. And even if we get close, is that really going to stop her?”

  Again, all eyes turned to me. “It should,” I said. “Not every sunset or black cat’s going to get a reaction from Prudence. Otherwise, she’d be searching for that roller bag every time it happened. It’s that signal in the context of this office building. If she thinks she’s in a different setting, there’s no connection between the stimulus and her response.”

  “But this is all just theory,” argued the man.

  Nicole was well regarded at work, but she was also a relatively new hire. She wouldn’t have built up a lot of credibility in the eyes of her coworkers. And me? I’d have only what came from association with her. So, I was relieved when another man answered, letting me conserve whatever goodwill I had left.

  “Not really, Ben. It’s the same thing they use to train animals at the zoo or a circus.”

  “Now that woman out there’s an animal?” said Ben.

  “Greenwood’s treatment would keep her brain at a stage much like a lower primate,” replied Nicole. There was a bite in her tone, probably reflecting some frustration at retreading this topic.

  “Still, I don’t know.”

  “Let’s vote,” said Russo. “And if we go ahead with the plan, we can stop if Prudence reacts.”

  “Unless her reaction is to blow up the building,” said Ben.

  When the hands were counted, it was seven in favor, six against.


  But Ben wasn’t done and pointed at me. “He can’t vote. He doesn’t even work here.”

  “And he’ll be just as dead as anyone else if Prudence sets off that bomb,” replied the woman who had comforted Russo earlier. “We’ve voted. Let’s get going.”

  That settled it and Bush called Agent Alban, telling him we would be doing some work in the lobby. No one savored the idea of being shot by a police sniper. When Alban asked what we were up to, Bush merely said, “Creating a visual distraction because we don’t think the verbal ones will do any good.” I admired both the way he phrased it and the manner; it was a statement, not a request.

  Alban put us on hold, but a few moments later, he came back on. “The FBI can’t endorse whatever it is you’re about to do,” he said slowly as if picking each word with care. “But we’ll hold fire unless we see Prudence threatening one of you.” He paused a moment. “Unofficially, we agree. We don’t think telling her you have a spouse and kids at home will have any effect. But anything you can do to appear … well, more like her, the better. Good luck.” He disconnected.

  “Well, ladies and gentlemen,” said Russo, rubbing his hands together as if he was actually anxious to get started. “We have a beach to build.”

  12:58 PM – The Crusaders’ Compound

  Rebecca stepped out onto the front porch of the farmhouse and called out, “All clear.” Three officers stepped from behind their cars and started toward her. Farther up the drive, she could see the six Crusaders they had apprehended earlier being loaded into cars with other officers. By now, the ranks of law enforcement had grown to two dozen or more.

  “Apprehended?” she muttered to herself. Was that the right word for the follow-the-leader game she’d played with them? When the trio of officers got close enough, she said, “Any of you have computer skills? We need to break into a password-protected system.”

  The officers shared a look then one said, “No, guess not.”

  “OK, one of you spread the word about the all-clear and see if anyone else might be able to hack into a computer. And we could probably use four more people inside to search offices and files.”