Project Chiron

by Ryan King

  Brian was unhurt again, but his eyes were full of sadness. "I know it seems impossible now, but you have to go on. You're strong. You can't just lay down and die."

  "I'm not strong," she insisted. "You were the strong one. You're my other half, my twin. Without you, I'm incomplete."

  "You think that, but it's not true," he answered. "That's why you hated me going off to the military."

  "And leaving me," she said angrily.

  "And why you couldn't make things work with Travis," Brian continued.

  "That had nothing to do with you," she said.

  Brian shook his head. "That was the most meaningful relationship you've ever had and you couldn't find a way to share yourself with anyone but me."

  "Because he wasn't the right one," she said, crossing her arms over her chest.

  "Because you were scared," he said. "But you have no need to be scared. You're stronger than you think, never forget that."

  "Stay with me," she pleaded.

  "It's time to go," he said, and she noticed he appeared pale and bloodless. "Wake up, Amanda. Wake up."

  "No," she said, struggling deeper into her dream.

  "Wake up now," he said more forcefully. "Wake up. Wake up. Wakeupwakeupwakeup..."

  Amanda realized someone was shaking her and opened her eyes to find strange men in uniform leaning over her. She was back in the cell. Groaning, Amanda closed her eyes and tried to retreat to her dreams again. A hand slapped her face forcefully, and her eyes flew open.

  "How long has she been like this?" asked Urchart.

  Lyles shrugged. "I don't know. A few days, a week maybe."

  "When is the last time she ate or drank anything?" Urchart asked.

  "I couldn't tell you," answered Lyles. "We put in fresh food and water and take out the old. The doc recommended bed rest, so we left her alone."

  Brennan stepped close to her and knelt. He put a cool hand to her forehead and then fingers to her neck. Finally, he picked up one of her limp hands and pressed down on the fingernails while watching closely.

  He turned to Urchart. "Her capillary refill is almost non-existence. I'd say she is dangerously dehydrated. Has a little fever also, and her pulse seems high."

  "Get her over to the clinic," Urchart said. "Tell the doc to get her an IV and make sure nothing bad happens to her."

  Amanda started laughing, she couldn't help it. Make sure nothing bad happens to me, she thought.

  They lifted her up, mattress and all, and carried her out of the cell and across an open area. Then she was inside again and felt herself transported down a dim hallway before the mattress was lowered to a floor. Two men then picked her up and laid her on a hospital bed.

  "What do we have here?" asked the doctor in a Haitian accent.

  "Dehydration, I believe," answered Brennan. "Possibly a fever. Take care of her." He then motioned for his men to follow him as he left the room.

  The thin Haitian leaned over and looked at her carefully. His face showed concern and worry. The dark eyes that peered into hers were kind and sad at the same time.

  "Let me get some fluids into you," he said finally and hung a bag of saline on the pole beside her. He had a difficult time finding a vein in her condition, but he finally managed to get the drip started. He put a blood pressure cuff on her other arm and began pumping it up while listening to her pulse on the stethoscope.

  "Are you really a doctor?" she managed to ask.

  He let the air out of the cuff and pulled it off her arm. "I am," he answered simply.

  "How can you do this?" she asked, her eyes cutting towards the barred window to indicate the camp.

  "I help people." He slipped a thermometer under her tongue. "Even political prisoners like you need medical help. That is what I do."

  She started to speak, but he stopped her with an open palm and pushed the thermometer deeper under her tongue.

  "You are severely dehydrated," he said, finally pulling the slender piece of glass from her mouth. "Your blood pressure is dangerously low and your pulse is too high. Are you on any medication?"

  "No," she answered. "I've only been kidnapped and seen my twin brother murdered. No medications."

  He stared at her suspiciously. "I don't know anything about that, but I need to go get you something to lower that fever. I will be right back."

  "I'll be here," she answered, looking towards the closed window.

  The doctor hesitated, staring at her uncertain. "I'll be right back," he repeated.

  "Can you open the curtains further?" she asked. "I'd like to see the sun and the sky."

  "But of course," he answered, walking over and pulling the cloth back. Warm light bathed her, and she could see fluffy white clouds floating above her.

  "Thank you," she whispered to him as he walked out of the room.

  It reminded her of her dream. She and Brian on a warm, perfect day, just the two of them. She closed her eyes and tried to find her way back to that dream.

  You're strong, Brian said in her mind.

  Opening her eyes, she noticed the light glint off something on the table beside her. Looking over, she reached out and picked up the thermometer and pulled it close to her eyes to examine.

  Who uses these old things anymore? she wondered. Even when I took that EMT course at LSU, we had the digital forehead thermometers.

  Carefully, she reached out and stuck the end of the thermometer into the small crack in the bedside table's drawer. Amanda then tilted the other end down slowly until she heard the sharp crack. Lifting the jagged remains up, thick silver mercury dripped over her hand and rolled in beads onto the floor. She stared out at the fluffy clouds.

  "Oh, Brian," she said crying. "You always thought the best of me and were always so wrong."

  She tilted her head back and jabbed the sharp glass into the carotid artery in her neck. Amanda watched the clouds until she slipped away.

  Chapter 30

  Allen Branch had been a journalist for over a decade and was used to confidential sources acting strangely. They all seemed to believe that if the wrong person saw them talking to a reporter it would ruin their life or at least make things difficult. In Allen's experience, this quest for secrecy was not really necessary and he thought that many of them simply liked the sense of excitement.

  Even so, Bridgett had seemed nervous and given him a fiercer than normal hug, as if she were sincerely worried about him.

  "Don't worry," he had told her smiling. "I've handled many powerful guard dog types. Devin Alders doesn't scare me."

  "He should," she said with a drawn face. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

  "Of course," he answered, unable to understand her concern. "This is already a good story. Missing supreme court judge's son and friends, but you add in the governor's connection and that makes it just a little more juicy. Even off the record."

  She had smiled, kissed him, and walked away looking like she were going to cry.

  What the hell is wrong with her? he wondered. Must be that time of the month or something.

  Now that he was at the abandoned warehouse on the west side of New Orleans, he felt the slightest sense of unease. As a journalist, you paid attention to the stories you heard. Some of them were worth paying attention to, most of them weren't. Those involving Lucas Ross and his personal assistant Devin Alders were the kind Allen believed were at least grounded in truth. Whispered tales hinted that Devin Alders was the sort of man who made problems disappear quietly, tidily, and permanently.

  "Come on, Allen," he said to himself, getting out of his car. "Don't be a scaredy-cat. It's just a story." Nevertheless, the old buildings covered in graffiti and surrounded by trash touched a nerve.

  He walked quickly from where he had been instructed to park and around to the side of one particular building. Devin Alders had been very particular on the phone. Exact time. Specific locations. Not telling anyone about the meeting. These ex-military types could be such bores. They still believed they were in the
military and treated everyone else around them accordingly. Regardless, it had the makings of an excellent story and that made a little bullshit worth it.

  A door opened up as he walked towards it, and an angular face looked at him.

  "Name please," the man said.

  Allen stopped and frowned. "We just talked on the damn phone. What do you mean, name please?"

  "Just provide your name, sir," he said calmly.

  He sighed. "Allen Branch. I work for the Louisiana Review. I'm hoping you are Mr. Devin Alders."

  The man opened the door wider. "Please come in. I apologize for any inconvenience."

  Allen walked through the door and heard it shut and lock behind him. He looked up into a large open warehouse. The interior was bare but clean. Skylights eliminated most of the shadows. The angular man in jeans and a sport coat smiled at him and indicated for Allen to follow as he walked further into the warehouse.

  They proceeded around a corner and entered what must have once been a break room for whoever had worked there before. The small room contained cabinets and a refrigerator. A round table sat in the middle of the linoleum floor with two plastic chairs arranged opposite of each other.

  "Want some coffee?" asked Devin, moving over to a full pot and pouring himself a cup.

  "No thanks," answered Allen, setting his shoulder bag on the floor and pulling out a digital recorder and a notebook.

  Devin pointed at the items. "You won't be needing those."

  "I assure you that your confidentiality is safe with me," said Allen. "I simply need to make sure I get the facts straight."

  The man stared at him silently for a few moments and then sat down with his coffee. "Fair enough," he finally said. "But we'll need to get a few things straight first. Please sit."

  Slowly sliding into the chair, Allen reached out to turn on his digital recorder, but the other man grabbed it and pulled it out of reach.

  "Hey, now," said Allen in protest.

  "Not yet," said Devin, putting the recorder in his jacket pocket and, with the same hand, pulling a small pistol with a silencer out of a shoulder holster and laid it on the table. Devin kept his hand on the pistol even while it rested on the cheap, round tabletop. The small hole at the end of the silencer pointed at Allen.

  It took a minute for Allen to get his voice back. "What the hell is this?"

  "This, Mr. Branch, is a conversation," Devin explained. "Maybe the most important conversation you have ever had in your life."

  "Okay, but can you put the pistol away?"

  "No," Devin answered. "I may need it."

  "You don't need it for me."

  "That remains to be seen," Devin said. "Look around you. Does this setting strike you as odd?"

  Allen nodded. "Yes, but sources are odd ducks, no offense."

  Devin tilted his head and smiled. "I am not your source." He rolled his eyes. "Let me paint you a picture. You come to an isolated warehouse in the middle of nowhere to meet a stranger. No one knows you are here. I even have a cell phone jammer in the corner in case you are trying to transmit our meeting. I have a small caliber silenced pistol pointing at you. Small caliber, so as not to make a big mess. You are sitting on a plastic chair that rests on a linoleum floor. Bleach and cleaning supplies are in the corner, and I've got a large canvas bag there filled with plastic sheets and duct tape. It will be short work for me to weight you down and drop your carcass in the nearby harbor. Then I clean up everything and dispose of your car. What do you think is going to happen next?"

  Allen's eyes had grown wide as the man talked. "But why? I haven't done anything to you. Why would you want to kill me?"

  "I don't want to kill you," Devin answered. "It's just a job. You've stumbled upon something you shouldn't have."

  "Jack Winters’ disappearance? Why is that such a big deal? I wouldn't even have known about it if my girlfriend hadn't put me onto it."

  "Bridgett is not your girlfriend," said Devin.

  Allen felt a moment of anger. "Yes she is. I think I would know. You probably don't even know her."

  "That's not even her real name," said Devin with a pitying smile. "Her job was to seduce you and feed you information that Lucas Ross wanted to get into the press."

  "I don't believe you."

  The man shrugged. "Think about it. All those tidbits and morsels of info? Ever go out with her in public, meet her family, learn her background? Ever date a woman as beautiful and captivating and...uh, more accommodating?"

  Allen thought. "Well no, but she loves me."

  "Then why does everything have to be secret?" asked Devin.

  "If you must know, it’s because she's still married," insisted Allen. "She's in the process of getting divorced and then we'll be together. Bridgett just needs to keep our relationship secret for now until it's all over."

  Devin chuckled. "You sad boy. That woman is a piranha who has never been married. At least as far as I know. She duped you, but don't be too hard on yourself. She is very good at what she does."

  "Why are you telling me this?" Allen asked again.

  "Because you need to believe me when I tell you that I don't want to kill you."

  "Okay," said Allen. "Then don't. Just let me go, and we'll both forget about all of this."

  "That won't be possible," said Devin. "If I don't kill you, someone else will and then come for me. But there might be another way."

  "I'm open to alternatives," said Allen nervously.

  "Good." Devin smiled. "You will need to disappear. Tonight, in fact. You will never again talk to any friends or family. It will be as if you dropped off the face of the earth."

  "I can't do that," said Allen. "My mother is ill."

  "Would her illness take a turn for the worse if I shot you the face?" asked Devin, tapping the pistol with his index finger.

  Allen sat silently staring hard at the gaunt man.

  "Anyway," continued Devin, "I've got a bag for you with money, new identity documents, everything you need to start a new life."

  "A new life?" asked Allen. "Doing what?"

  "Anything but journalism," answered Devin. "That's a little too close to the truth. The new identification docs are good, but if someone is looking for you, we don't want them looking for a reporter."

  "But journalism is my life," protested Allen.

  "Is it worth your life?" asked Devin, patting the pistol. "What else do you like to do? Look at this as an opportunity. Stop being such a sorry sack of shit."

  Allen thought. "Well, I do like to write. I've been thinking of starting on my novel."

  "There you go," said Devin with a smile. "That's the spirit. Just please don't dedicate the book to me."

  "No danger of that," said Allen. "And that's it? I just disappear somewhere and forget about all my family and friends? Write books and hide?"

  "Not quite," said Devin. "I'm taking a big risk here. I want something in return."

  "What?" asked Allen.

  Devin pulled out a small scrap of paper. "On here is an email account and password. It doesn't tie to you or me. I want you to check it the first of every month. You'll get an email from someone mentioning lemons."

  "An email mentioning lemons?" asked Allen with a confused look on his face.

  "Yes," said Devin. "It should come from a different email address each time. You should get it by the first of the month, the third at the latest."

  "Who are the emails from?" asked Allen.

  "From me, dumbass."

  "Why? What am I supposed to do with them?"

  "Nothing," answered Devin. "It's what you do if you don't get the email."

  "I don't understand," said Allen.

  The man sat there for a moment looking at the pistol. "I need some insurance. Lucas has begun looking into me. He wouldn't do that unless he's already thinking of me as a loose end. I need some insurance."

  "Like kill you?" asked Allen. "The governor's chief-of-staff? That's crazy."

  "You don't know him," said De
vin. "Not the way I do. He is quite capable of murder and more."

  "So go to the police or something," said Allen.

  Devin smiled sadly. "He already has the police in his pocket. I need something else."

  "I'm figuring that's where I come in," said Allen.

  "Yes. If you don't get that email by say...the fifth of any month, you write the story I'm going to give you. I recommend you don't publish it under your own name, but that's up to you at that point. I'll be dead, and if you want to join me, be my guest."

  "What story?" asked Allen.

  The man looked at him intensely. "The true story of what happened in Oman. I was there. I saw it all. I know what happened."

  "Everyone already knows that story," said Allen.

  "No, they don't," said Devin. "That is only what they wanted everyone to think. The true story is beyond belief." The man holstered his pistol and reached into his jacket pocket to pull out the digital recorder and handed it back to Allen.

  "As a bonus, I'll also tell you quite a fine tale of what the governor and Lucas have been up to and plans for the future, but first Oman."

  Allen looked at him with a blank face.

  Devin tapped the top of Allen's notebook and recorder. "Now you can use these."

  Allen turned on the recorder and began to write as the story unfolded.

  Chapter 31

  Deborah Mitchell drove slowly through the north section of the French Quarter. She was off duty and terribly tired, but almost without conscious thought found herself on the opposite side of New Orleans from her townhouse apartment.

  She pulled into a curbside parking spot and looked across the street. There sat an unassuming concrete building conspicuously free of graffiti or piles of trash. She supposed this is where she had known she was coming since getting off work.

  A placard proclaimed, “French Quarter Department of Social Welfare and Services.” Below this hung a bright banner that read, “Take Back the Streets One Heart at a Time.”

  Deborah climbed out of her sedan and walked across the street. Somewhere she could hear blues music playing, but it seemed far away. The fading sun cast long shadows and glinted off hidden bits of broken glass in the thin weeds.