I rub my thighs again. He frowns, and then says, “You aren’t comfortable in the seat, are you, kid?” He’s more comfortable with “kid.” “Bet your muscles are all wonky from that cage.” He straightens, glances around, then goes in the back of the plane where I can’t see him. A minute later, he comes back and unbuckles me. “It ain’t exactly protocol, but I think you’ll feel better here,” he says, and lifts me out of my seat. “Damn, kid, you can’t weigh a hundred pounds soakin’ wet.” He carries me back a few rows to where he’s folded up some seats on the half-empty transport and put the cushions on the floor. He sets me down on the cushions. “There you are. Is that better?”
I look up at him, meet his eyes for the first time. They’re brown. I feel my lips move, twist, and realize I’m smiling. I don’t think it’s a snarl because he grins back at me.
I curl up on the cushions, so soft and comfortable, and sleep for the rest of the trip. When I open my eyes again, it’s to the lieutenant shaking my shoulder. “We’re about to land, kid, and you gotta be buckled in for that. Sorry.”
I experiment with that smile again and lift my arms for him to pick me up. He does so, laughing. “I got a little nephew does that, but he’s three. What’s your excuse?”
I rest my head on his shoulder. He’s kind, and he smells good. I don’t even mind him waking me from the first good sleep I’ve had in years. I didn’t even know you could sleep in dreams.
He buckles me in and I wait for the plane to land, and stop, and for him to come and fetch me again. This time he only carries me to the front of the plane, where a couple of men in white are waiting with a stretcher. They put me on the stretcher, but when they start to move away, I reach out and grab his sleeve, and whine. He pats my shoulder and says, “I’ll see you at the hospital, kid. Don’t worry.”
His smile is warm and makes me want to trust him. He’s the only one so far, but I trust him. I let the stretcher men carry me away to the waiting ambulance, but now I’m scared again. I don’t know what’s waiting anymore. I knew, with Esteban, what was waiting, but I don’t anymore, and I’m scared. I remember a saying: “Better the devil you know….” but Esteban wasn’t better. Just… familiar.
Nothing is familiar anymore, and I’m scared.
RICHARD TYLER picked up the ringing phone on the desk in his cubicle. The number on the phone’s screen was the receptionist’s. “Tyler,” he said absently, his attention on the computer in front of him.
“Rich, there are a couple of people here from the State Department,” Abby said. Her voice trembled.
Richard’s stomach dropped. This was it: the news he’d been expecting since the ten-million dollar ransom had vanished into the jungles of Central America five years ago. Numbly he replied, “Put them in the small conference room. I’ll be right there.” He set down the phone and stared at it a moment.
It could be just another one of the interminable interviews that he’d sat through off and on throughout the last half-decade, State Department suits looking for things that might lead to capture of the terrorists that had kidnapped Zach from the airport in Costa Rica, supposedly one of the safest spots in Central America. The abduction had shaken the business world and tightened up security in the little tourist-friendly country, but it had come too late for Zachary. Richard rubbed his forehead and took a deep breath. This time, though, it felt different, and Richard suspected he knew why. This was it. The end of the waiting. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t expected it. Best to get it over with. He closed down the program he was working on and left his cubicle.
Barry Genelli, his vice president in charge of research and development, was in the cubicle next to him—everyone worked on the floor; no corner offices in this company, one of the largest in revenue in the world, but one of the smallest in terms of officer perks—and he looked up as Richard went by. “What’s up, Rich?”
“Another visit by State—probably on the Zach thing,” Richard said dully.
“Maybe not: maybe they’re looking for something like the locator chip Davey designed that that Dutch company bought. Gotta be at least thirty thousand State Department employees abroad; be a hell of a sale.”
“Except that Dutch company bought the manufacturing rights, Barry. They’ll have to deal with them.”
Barry shrugged. “We still own the patents. We’d still make a killing in royalties.”
“Yeah.” Richard nodded disinterestedly. He raked his hand through his graying hair and walked through the maze of cubicles to the reception area and conference rooms.
The pair of men that waited for him weren’t the usual suits. One of them was, with the obligatory briefcase, but the other was a man in an Army uniform with captain’s insignia. Richard stopped in the doorway, his gut hurting. This was it. “Gentlemen,” he said, and closed the door behind him, then leaned on it, his hands in the back pockets of his jeans.
“Mr. Richard Tyler?”
“That’s me. What can I do for you?”
“It’s regarding your son Zachary.”
“Yeah. I kind of figured.” Richard walked across the room to the floor-to-ceiling windows. They framed a spectacular view of the Colorado Rockies in the distance. “You found him, didn’t you.”
In the window, he saw the reflection of the two men as they glanced at each other. The suit said, “Yes, sir. You may have heard about the joint American-Dutch rescue of ten hostages from a Venezuelan paramilitary group last week?”
“Yeah. Yeah. Is that where he ended up? Venezuela?”
“Yes, sir.”
Richard let out a breath. He could not deal with this, not now. He’d thought he could, but no. Curtly he said, “I suppose he’s been positively identified?”
“Yes, sir,” the captain said. “You had registered his fingerprints with that child-protection database some years ago….”
“Jesus,” Richard said over his shoulder. “There was enough left after five years to match fingerprints? No”—he held up his hand to forestall an answer—“I can’t deal with the details right now. Just tell me—when can we bring him home?” He didn’t say “the remains” though that was what he was thinking. But it was Zachary. His pride, his brilliant boy, his loving child. Not some grisly “remains.”
The captain said, “Well, there are health issues that need to be dealt with, both physical and emotional. You’ll need to get a good physical therapist for him, and….”
Richard whipped around, staring at the captain. “Physi… are you saying Zach’s alive?”
“Yes, sir,” the captain said in surprise. “We found him in Venezuela, a prisoner of the same paramilitary group that kidnapped the group from Suriname…. Sir…?”
Richard bent over the conference table, his hands flat on the surface to support him. He fought to keep his breath even, to stop the hyperventilating that had become a regular occurrence in the last five years. But this time—this really was it. The real end of the nightmare. “Oh, my God,” he said, weeping, and drew his hands across his face to wipe away the tears. “My Zachary—my boy….”
“Sir, please sit down,” the suit said. “Can I get you a drink of water?”
“No, no, thank you,” Richard said. He wiped his face again. “God. I’ve got to tell his mother…. Is he all right? You said physical therapy—was he hurt?” His eyes went from the suit’s face to the captain’s. They were holding out on him….
“He walked out of the camp on his own two feet,” the captain said, “but I won’t blow smoke up your skirt and tell you he’s fine. He’s in rough shape, Mr. Tyler. I saw the conditions he was in and they weren’t pretty, plus he sustained some injuries that have healed kind of badly.”
Richard sat down. “What kind of injuries?”
“I think you’ll be better off talking directly with the attending doctor. I don’t know all the details. Zach’s at the civilian hospital in Fayetteville, near Fort Bragg. He’s still undergoing tests; we want to make sure he’s not hiding any bug we haven’t dealt wi
th before. After all, he’s been in the jungle for five years in poor conditions, prime breeding grounds for all kinds of disease. There are psychologists working with him too; he’s been through a lot.” The captain drew a breath. “My name’s John Rogers; I was the commanding officer of the joint American-Dutch task force that went in to rescue the hostages. My men were the ones who found Zach.”
“Captain Rogers,” the suit said, “recognized your son and had him sent directly to Fort Bragg, where he was positively identified by the database we mentioned earlier. Since then, his passport and personal identification were found in the files that were removed from the site. The Venezuelan government, although not on particularly good terms with the U.S. at this point in time, has nevertheless been very helpful in assisting us in tracking down the kidnappers….”
“But ironically enough, the real help was that one of the Dutch businessmen who was taken was implanted with that GPS locator you designed,” Captain Rogers said.
“I didn’t design it,” Richard said shakily. “That was David Evans—my housekeeper’s kid. He was working for us when Zach was taken. He did it for Zach, worked on it the whole summer after…. He was obsessed with it. Said if Zach had had something like this….” He stopped. David. After everything, it had been David who’d made the difference. “He did save him. David. David saved Zach.”
“I’d say so,” Captain Rogers agreed. “Or at least made it possible for us to. We were damned lucky this mission.”
“Captain,” Richard breathed, “I hope to God you’re always so lucky.”
“Mr. and Mrs. Tyler? I’m Dr. Duffey.”
The man held out his hand to Richard; he shook it, as did Jane a moment later. Duffey seemed competent; a man of small stature with a shock of brown hair standing up on his head, too thick to lie flat. “I’ve been working with Zach since his arrival five days ago. Most of that was just trying to get him to relax a little; he spent the first two days in the fetal position, terrified out of his wits. But he’s shown vast improvement in the last couple of days.”
“You’re the psychologist?”
“Psychiatrist, yes. I specialize in trauma victims. Dr. McKinnon is the doctor handling Zach’s physical condition. Zach’s in poor shape, but it’s mostly a matter of severe malnutrition. We’re more concerned at this point with his psychological state. You’ll meet Dr. McKinnon later this afternoon.”
“When can we see my son?” Jane asked anxiously.
Duffey smiled at her. “Soon,” he said reassuringly. “But I need to tell you some things you have to know before you go in there. To prepare you.”
“Prepare us for what?” Richard demanded.
The doctor rubbed his forehead. “They didn’t tell you anything about him, did they?”
“They kept telling us to wait to talk to you. What’s wrong with Zach?”
“Aside from being very emaciated from malnutrition, he’s severely traumatized and nonverbal.”
“What do you mean ‘nonverbal’?” Jane asked.
“He doesn’t talk.”
“We know what ‘nonverbal’ means,” Richard said impatiently, “but what does it mean in Zach’s case? He’s got something wrong with his throat? He ignores you when you talk to him? Makes funny sounds? Doesn’t make sounds at all?”
“He barks.”
There was silence in the little waiting room, then Richard said quietly, “What the fuck do you mean, ‘he barks’?”
“He barks. Whines, occasionally whimpers. He responds as if he were a dog.” Dr. Duffey shook his head. “From what the lieutenant who brought him in says, he was treated as if he were a dog for the last five years. Kept in a cage, with a collar, fed table scraps, occasionally walked with a leash—though not often; his leg muscles are atrophied, and he’ll need physical therapy for a good long time before he’ll be able to walk more than a few steps unsupported.”
“Oh, God,” Jane said, her hand on her mouth. Under his breath, Richard said, “Fuck.”
“There’s worse,” Duffey warned. They both looked at him. “I’d suggest you both sit down.”
“Fuck,” Richard said again, and they obeyed. He reached for Jane’s hand and held it tightly.
“He was raped, wasn’t he?” Jane asked. Richard blinked and looked at her. She looked back and said simply, “He’s beautiful, Richard. Of course someone would hurt him that way. Evil people want to damage beauty—they don’t understand it.”
“Yes. Physical indications are that he was sexually abused over a long period; there is scarring in both the genital and anal areas. There is nothing to indicate permanent damage, though, aside from the scarring; there’s no sign of STDs. Once he’s recovered, he should function normally.”
Richard snorted. “It’s the recovery part that’s the question, isn’t it? How do you recover from something like that?”
“Slowly, I’m afraid.” Dr. Duffey shook his head. “The fact that he’s still not speaking after five days in care is not a good sign. I’m hoping that now that you’re here, his condition will improve considerably.”
“I doubt it,” Richard said savagely. He stood and walked away from them, staring out the window much as he had in the conference room in the suburb outside Colorado Springs. The view was less inspiring here—just the hospital parking lot.
“Richard,” Jane murmured.
“Well, Jenny, it’s true. He has no reason to love us. He was in love for the first time in his life, and how did we deal with it? We put him on a plane and sent him alone into the hands of that bastard that raped and ruined him—all to keep him out of the hands of someone who loved him. Someone who fucking saved him. Jesus, Jenny. We should have let him be with David—at least then he would have been happy and whole.”
“I take it Zach is gay,” the doctor said delicately.
“I thought it was just being fifteen,” Richard said miserably. “David thought so too. He said he cared for Zach, but that he was too young for a relationship; he had told Zach they’d have to wait. I thought it was just… just hormones or something, that he had a crush on David. He’d known him his whole life, he’s older, more mature…. David was just out of high school, saving money for college, working with my company, but he’s the housekeeper’s son and lived on the estate, they saw each other every day. David used to drive him around until Zach was old enough to get his driver’s license… Jesus. He doesn’t even have a driver’s license….” Richard buried his face in his hand and wept.
Jane went to him and put her arms around him, her cheek laid gently on his shoulder blade. To the doctor she said, “My sister lives in Costa Rica, and she’d been asking for Zach to come down and visit her. We thought it would be a good idea for him to spend some time away from David, if it was just a crush, you know? David agreed. He said Zach needed to know his own mind, that he needed to be older before he’d be ready for a relationship with anyone, male or female. We all sent him away. It was all our faults. Richard blames himself, but it was all our faults.”
“It’s not your fault at all,” Dr. Duffey said. “Let’s cast the blame where it belongs, on the shoulders of the man that did this, the so-called General Benito Esteban.”
“Have they caught him? Is he in jail, that bastard?” Richard demanded, wiping his face irritably. “I want to see the face of that foul, stinking….”
“He’s dead,” the doctor said in surprise. “Didn’t they tell you?”
“No. Was he killed in the raid?”
“No. Zach killed him.”
THE HOSPITAL room door opens and I jerk, startled. I should be used to the abrupt comings and goings of the doctors, but after living so long with only the sounds of human voices and bugs in the trees outside—not to mention the occasional gunshot—I’m finding the banging and humming and squeaking and beeping disconcerting. No, scratch that—downright annoying, irritating, scary….
It’s Fluffy Duffey, my personal shrink. He’s little and unintimidating, with fluffy brown hair and nice, pa
tient eyes. “Hi, Zach,” he says. “How are you feeling this afternoon?”
Same as ever, Fluffy.
“How was your lunch? The nurse said you polished everything off.”
And would have eaten the tray, too, if it had been organic. My stomach shrank, they tell me, so I don’t have much capacity for food, but I’m hungry now. I wasn’t hungry the first few days, but I’m making up for lost time.
He takes my hand and checks my pulse. He’s a shrink, but apparently he’s a real doctor too; he seems to understand the monitors and charts and whatnot. Whatever my wrist tells him he’s apparently happy with. “You have visitors,” he says.
I blink, not understanding at first.
“Your parents are here.”
For a minute, I don’t know what he means. What are parents? Then my heart starts pounding and I’m terrified. No, not them. Esteban told me that they didn’t care about me, that they never sent the ransom he’d demanded, that they’d replied that they didn’t care what he did with me, that they had sent me to him on purpose…. I start hyperventilating, and Fluffy puts an oxygen mask on my face. “Breathe slowly,” he says over the hiss of the oxygen. I can’t breathe. I’m so afraid. This is a dream and I know what happens next: they come in and they’ve got the faces of monsters and they slaughter Fluffy and start eating my feet and then I wake up and it’s Esteban again, only this time he’ll know what I dreamt about and he’ll start telling more stories about my parents and the monsters they are and how they’ve eaten everyone I knew. I’m crying in fear now, when I haven’t cried in years, and I can’t catch my breath and Fluffy’s upset; not as upset as he will be in a minute when they come in and tear his throat out….
They come in and they’re just people, strangers with frightened faces. I suck in a breath and wait for them to turn into the monsters, but they just stand there. The woman is crying and the man has his arms around her. He’s got black curly hair like mine, but there are silver strands in it; his eyes are dark and there are lines on his face that only get deeper when he looks at me. The woman has blonde hair, sleeked back in some fancy knot I used to know the name of, something French, but I can’t see her face because she’s got it buried in his shoulder. “Jane,” he says, and then I recognize him. The silver and the lines confuse me, because my dad didn’t have silver hair or lines on his face. He does now.
Dreamspinner Press Year Four Greatest Hits Page 2