by Hulden Morse
Gutierrez was the Health and Safety Chair for the Chicago district of Reaching Dreams. His primary roles were to handle any incidents where someone may have been injured on the job and to ensure that all members of the Reaching Dreams team followed the protocols for safe interaction with the public. He was surprised to receive a personal call from headquarters about a new project and was slightly distressed after being told that he was one of three people in the entire corporation who knew about the undercover operation. Apparently, headquarters wanted to determine why the Chicago district seemed to operate so effectively, while other districts struggled in comparison. For that reason, they wanted no special treatment from anyone in the area. They wanted to observe normal operations and merely needed someone to check in on the executive multiple times a day to ensure he was not in any danger.
It was not until the day before the project was to begin that Gutierrez met the executive. He stood in awe as Charles Pearson, the man himself, stuck out his hand and offered a warm smile.
“So you’re going to make sure no one kills me?” he said, shaking Gutierrez’s hand excitedly.
“Shut up, Charles,” the CEO’s gorgeous assistant said. Gutierrez recognized her voice as the woman who had originally called him. He welcomed both of them to Chicago, and they all briefly exchanged pleasantries. Gutierrez was surprised with how cordial and down to earth the two executives seemed to be. Even in a nonprofit, he had imagined a coarse CEO that was all about business and getting his way. Instead, he was presented with a man who enjoyed a good joke and an assistant who seemed to be treated not as a disposable pawn, but as an equal. It made him prouder to be a part of the company. He wanted to impress them and do right by them. And that meant continual checkups on Charles Pearson.
As instructed, he would drive past the camp in an unmarked car every morning to see that the CEO was still in the sleeping bag. He would then come by later in the morning and would expect him to be begging on a nearby street corner. The drive-bys continued in the afternoon, the evening, and after it grew dark. Each time, Gutierrez was not to leave the area until the undercover executive was spotted and his health could be assessed. He was taking on a hell of a project, something that would certainly create tension between him and his family with the large amount of time it demanded, though he was reassured that it was temporary and could be openly discussed with his family at the conclusion of the operation.
Pearson and Hamilton seemed to have worked out every detail, creating a plan that was simple, concise, and not expected to exceed two weeks in length given the reputation of the Chicago district. Gutierrez felt confident that the undercover executive would not have any issues with the homeless people in the area. And for the first day, things went as expected. Pearson could be seen tossing and turning in his sleeping bag early in the morning. He could then be spotted with a cup and a sign a couple of blocks from where he had slept. Gutierrez had to admit that it was difficult not to give money to the out-of-place, deserving man, though he stuck to his instructions and did not provide any help to Pearson. If there was an emergency, Gutierrez was never far away, and the closest Reaching Dreams office was within walking distance of the camp.
It made him nervous being in charge of the CEO of one of the largest nonprofits in the country, though Gutierrez began to relax after the second day. He knew that all would be well and that the district recruiters would come by soon to bring Pearson into the program, effectively showcasing why Chicago seemed to be so efficient with their rehabilitation efforts.
On the third day of the operation, Gutierrez rounded a corner in his inconspicuous sedan and noticed that much of the camp had been cleared out, leaving three occupied tents behind when there used to be fourteen or fifteen. He searched for Pearson’s sleeping bag and found that it was missing. He knew that such a scene was to be expected, and part of him was impressed with the speed at which the undercover executive was recruited, though he could not deny that he had a bad feeling brewing within his gut. He felt as if he had taken his daughter to the park and was watching her play blissfully, when suddenly she disappeared behind a jungle gym. He knew she was fine and that she would reappear shortly, but an instinct within him screamed incessantly that if he could not see her, then something was very wrong.
Without missing a beat, the man drove quickly throughout the area to determine if his target had relocated to a nearby camp. After a brief search, he could confidently assume that Reaching Dreams had picked up the CEO and he was now being orientated into the program.
To comfort his own worried mind, Gutierrez drove to the nearest office and flashed his ID to the person behind the desk.
“What can I help you with, Mr. Gutierrez?” the polite woman asked, looking up from her computer.
“Yes. Hello. I’m looking for someone that may have been picked up recently. A homeless man.”
“Okay. Let me check the system. What’s his name?”
“Uh,” Gutierrez barely stopped himself from calling out Charles Pearson. He remembered the fake name Pearson was using. “Um, it’s Walsh. Frankie Walsh.”
“Okay. Let’s see here. . . . Nope. Sorry, sir. We don’t have anyone in the system by that name.”
“Oh, crap.” His heart sank. “When did you conduct recruitment this morning?”
“We do so at 11 a.m. and 3 p.m.”
Now Gutierrez was really worried. It was eight in the morning, and he knew that Pearson was in his sleeping bag at 9 p.m. the night before. Where would he—and all those other homeless people—have gone between then and now?
“Ma’am, do you have a map of what areas have been hit recently? I really need to find this person.”
“A friend of yours?” she said with concern.
“Yeah. A good friend. I thought he may have been picked up by us, but I saw him late last night sleeping on Dearborn Street at a small camp there. And most of them have cleared out since then.”
“Oh. Well, perhaps the police came by and swept them out. Sometimes we’ll monitor a location for a bit, but before we can come by to do recruitment, the police have moved everyone somewhere else.”
“I know how it works.” Gutierrez was starting to get upset. “I just need to find this guy. Who runs this branch?”
“Uh, our office manager is Scott. I’ll see if he’s available.”
The receptionist phoned someone while Gutierrez paced the lobby, praying that he would not have to call Hamilton and notify her of the situation. Pearson is fine. He has to be fine. It’s not like he’s the only one missing. A large group of homeless people left. He’s with them. They’re fine. He’s fine.
“Sir!” the woman said loudly, snapping him out of his thoughts. “What’s your position again?”
“I’m the Health and Safety Chair for the district.”
She repeated the information into the speaker, gave a quick “okay,” and then hung up the phone. “He’ll be right with you. I do wish you luck,” she said, flashing a sympathetic smile in his direction.
Gutierrez thanked her and began to pace once more. He’s fine. He’s somewhere safe. Maybe in a different camp. Or at a police station. Or in a shelter. He’ll call us. He’ll get to a phone and call. Or to a Reaching Dreams office. He knows what to do.
Shoes clicked loudly on the gleaming tile floor as a tall, suited man appeared in the expansive lobby. He had a dark complexion and perfectly kempt hair. The man extended his hand to Gutierrez and offered a friendly smile.
“Hello. I’m Scott Lieberman.”
“Jacob Gutierrez.”
“What can I do for you?”
“I’m looking for a homeless man. Name is Frankie Walsh. I thought our district may have picked him up, but he doesn’t seem to be in the system.”
“When did you last see him?”
“Last night. Under I-90 on Dearborn.”
“I can assure you we have not recruit
ed that camp yet,” Lieberman said firmly.
Gutierrez began to sweat. “There were a bunch of homeless people missing this morning. What do you think could cause that?”
“Mr. Gutierrez, I do not know. But it was not us.”
“Okay, I get it. But you don’t understand. I need to find this guy.”
The office manager paused for a second, seemingly mulling over a thought in his head.
“I’ll tell you what. We’ll flag the name. Uh, what was it again?”
“Frankie Walsh.”
“Right. Frankie Walsh. We’ll watch for it as we do our recruitment. In the meantime, I suggest you notify the police to see if they picked up anyone by that name.”
“Okay. Yeah, I’ll do that.”
“Alright. Leave your number with Cynthia and we’ll call you if we get anything. I’m sorry, but that’s the best I can do.” Lieberman patted him on the shoulder reassuringly and then turned away from the lobby, receding into the depths of the office. Gutierrez handed his business card to the receptionist, thanked her, and then hurried outside to call the police. He debated about dialing 911, but then decided it would be more appropriate to contact the non-emergency line.
“Chicago Police Department.”
“Yes, um, I’m Jacob Gutierrez, Health and Safety Chair for Reaching Dreams.”
“Yes, sir. How can I help you?”
“I’m looking for a homeless man by the name of Frankie Walsh. You pick up anyone by that name?”
He heard some typing over the line and waited anxiously for a reply. His stomach hurt from the stress. He rubbed his eyes, causing flashes of light to appear behind his lids.
“Sir?”
“Yes!”
“We don’t have anyone by that name in the system.”
He was deflated. “Uh, how about Charles Pearson. Can you check that name?”
“Certainly… No. No Charles Pearson. Are these individuals missing?”
“Um… well, just one person. May be using two names. Yeah, I’m looking for him.”
“Alright, sir,” the officer said calmly. “How long has this person been missing?”
“Since, well, this morning.”
“Okay, sir. I suggest you give it some time. Perhaps he merely wandered off to somewhere else.”
“I don’t think he would do that. I know he wouldn’t. He was moved somewhere.”
“Sir, please. Give it some time. If he doesn’t turn up by tomorrow, then give us a call.”
“Okay. Thank you.”
Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit.
Gutierrez stared at the ground, deep in thought. He didn’t want to call Hamilton. The last thing he wanted to do was to call Hamilton. But the situation had passed the point of slight concern. If there was even a chance that Pearson was in trouble, then he needed to notify the assistant.
He pulled out Hamilton’s card and dialed her number.
He’s fine. I know he’s fine. It’ll all be okay.
Chapter 5
His eyes opened to a bright light, shining down from above like the glow of an angel, hovering just out of reach and illuminating his whole being with warming grace. He gazed into the light, confused, before turning away in pain, his eyes unable to adjust to the overwhelming brilliance. Looking to the right, he blinked away the spots obscuring his vision and could make out a white room, neatly laid out with rolling, stainless steel cabinets standing at the ready upon a pristine, glossy floor.
Unable to make anything of the sight, Charles turned to his left and saw what looked to be a heart rate monitor with electrodes running toward his body. He followed the direction of the wires and saw that they trailed upon the ground and then disappeared from his view, obscured by the table upon which he was lying. The table was metal, uncomfortable, like one that could be found in the surgical room of a hospital.
He tried to sit up but found his body unable to respond. His limbs and torso felt heavy, as though a massive weight was lying upon him, preventing his muscles from exerting any force. Painfully, carefully, he craned his neck downward and saw thick, leather straps holding his bare, left arm against the table.
Breathing heavier, heartbeat increasing, Charles looked to his other side and saw the same bondage on the right: a strap at his shoulder, one on the bicep, another over his forearm, and one at his wrist. He began to panic, thrashing against the restraints with increasing ferocity. He could now feel another strap running over his chest, as well as across his pelvis and legs.
The room grew smaller, closing in around him, constricting his body even further, that bright light becoming the only thing in his immediate vision. All else fell into the void of the outside world, paling in comparison to the threat of certain suffering. Charles tried to take deep breaths, heavy sighs in order to calm his shaking, sweating body, but his lungs quickly digressed into hyperventilated heaves.
He screamed. The man called for help with every ounce of energy he could throw into his vocal chords. The sound echoed off the tile walls, giving him a clear sense that the room was impenetrable. Yet he continued to yell, continued to pull against the straps that held him tight, until there was a loud clanking behind him.
Panicking, Charles fought to see past the top of the table, desperately working to turn his head far enough to see what had produced the sound. Yet the clanking ceased and was replaced with a light chatter and the sound of footsteps drawing closer.
“What’s this one?” a voice said.
“Recruit number twelve. Let’s see how he does.”
Charles yelled at them. “What the hell is this? Where am I? What’s happening?”
Two men in dark blue lab coats walked into his view, not seeming to pay any attention to the struggling man strapped to the table. One of the stranger’s was short and Hispanic, with a stern face that intimidated Charles. The other man was heavyset, white, with blond hair and soft eyes. He tried to place them in his memory, hoping there was a simple explanation to the terror developing around him, but both faces were foreign, no more recognizable than a random person sauntering down the street.
One of the men flipped a switch on the machine next to the table and it began to beat in time with Charles’s heart rate, as well as displaying blood oxygen levels and his blood pressure. That was when he noticed the electrodes on his chest, connected to wires that disappeared off the edge of the table, cascading away like black water pouring over the crest of a cliff. Charles turned and watched the two men insert the ends of similar black wires into a large, grey box that had numerous warning signs on it, a machine sitting next to the vital signs monitor.
His eyes widened. Thoughts raced through his brain as the strained organ attempted to make sense of everything he was seeing. The area looked like a hospital room, but those men were not dressed as doctors. And they did not act like doctors. They never once looked at Charles, not daring to make eye contact with the person yelling at them, demanding answers.
A new clanking sound started behind him, which Charles decided was a door opening and closing. He waited anxiously to see the newcomer, praying that it was a friend that would walk into view. His friend would then smile at Charles, slap him on the chest, and yell, “Gotchya!” They would all laugh, he would be released from the table, and he would beat the shit out of his friend for being so cruel. Yes, that’s what was about to happen. Everything was going to be revealed soon.
But the man that walked into view was no one he recognized. He was tall, tan, with thick shoulders and a mustache that slightly curled at the ends. His hair was short, brown, professionally styled, and his eyes were a deep green. Charles stared at the man, analyzing his white coat and beige slacks. He looked like a doctor, someone he could trust to be a competent practitioner and able to answer his questions. The doctor’s face was stony, intense, yet had an approachability that the CEO simply could not explain.
/> “Who are you?” Charles cried. “Please, what’s going on? Talk to me!”
The man ignored him. He checked some of the machines and then wrote something down on a clipboard. He nodded to one of the individuals in a blue coat who nodded back and flipped a switch on the machine connected to Charles’s chest. The machine sprang to life with a deep humming, a sound that terrified Charles to no end. He felt the sound resonating within his body, as if he could feel the cruel soul of that contraption. It was prepared to do the bidding of those mysterious men.
“Please. Please, just let me go. I don’t know what I did. Please, talk to me. Let’s just talk.”
The two men in blue lab coats stepped away from Charles and stood in the center of the room with their hands clasped in front of them. The doctor pressed a button on the machine and the humming became louder, increasing in pitch and volume. The CEO’s hands twitched uncontrollably. His stomach churned, and he found it harder and harder to receive enough oxygen as his muscles tensed in preparation for whatever was about to occur.
The doctor-like individual then looked at him. They locked eyes for a brief moment. Charles stared into those deep, green eyes. He could see no discernable fear or remorse, only intent. Irrevocable, unstoppable intent.
Charles let out a pained and quiet “Why?”
The figure responded with a delighted grin that pulled at Charles’s heart, ripping out any hope of escape that had defiantly remained.
The man then pushed another button on the machine, and Charles felt a sharp, searing pain in his chest. He could not yell or move. His body burned agonizingly for a split second before the light above him faded. The room grew very dark. He felt himself slipping away. Charles noticed that he could no longer hear the rapid beeping of the heart rate monitor, and then his thoughts ceased to flow.
Chapter 6
Paula Hamilton sat back in her chair, staring at the pen on her glossy desk, her tongue rubbing the inside of her teeth. It had been ten minutes since she got off the phone with Gutierrez, and the assistant couldn’t bring herself to move a muscle. She had been worried about such an outcome, dreading that something bad would happen to Charles, but she had assumed those feelings were simply paranoia. They were mere concerns. In the back of her mind, she knew he would be well protected and that the odds of anything maleficent actually happening were incredibly slim.