Jack’s gaze never wavered. His expression never changed.
Annabelle silently cried.
Chapter Fifteen
It was with feet that wouldn’t move quite right that Annabelle followed Jack down the trash-strewn alley ahead of them. She tripped over herself twice and had to be righted by Reese, who walked behind her. Their footsteps mingled with the graffiti on the tin-covered walls, fading into rare shadows like a muffled cacophony of sound and color.
The warehouse hadn’t been used for industrial purposes in quite some time. This was made evident by the piles of rubble built up around the rusting chain link fences and borders of chicken wire that attempted to block off the larger equipment of an adjacent construction project which appeared to be all but abandoned. It was also made evident by the dated signatures of various gang members and their ilk that layered themselves like strata on the inside of a man-made mountain. At one point, someone had spray-painted a sign, in red, on a white strip of metal, stating that the premises were not to be used as a bathroom. Just beneath the sign were the foul remnants of what people thought of that sign.
The smell of human waste was muted, however, by the overlying stench of rotted fish remains and sea weed, as the warehouses jutted out over the docks and the polluted water below them. At high noon, as it was, there was no place for the refuse to hide from the rays of the sun and, even in early May, it was enough to create a heady, unpleasant perfume.
Absently, Annabelle wondered if this was the place where she would die. She guessed she wouldn’t be the first…
“The door ahead,” Reese instructed.
Jack came to stand before a metal-lined door in the side of a large square building. The warehouse was set apart from the buildings around it, not by any sign or new construction, but by the type of graffiti that graced its outer walls. A painting of Shakespeare’s Ophelia, done entirely in spray paint, stretched horizontally across the tin slats, her graceful figure laid flat atop a moat of water-lilies and cat tails. Her eyes were closed in sublime surrender, her right hand floated by her side, open and empty, her white gown and long, red hair soaked and ethereal. She was a drowned angel in a world of damp metal structures. A failed mermaid in a sea of dead fish and garbage.
Annabelle found herself staring at the figure, focusing on Ophelia’s closed eyes and that open hand.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” asked Reese, who had come to stand still behind her. “It was painted by a young man the Colonel found decorating an alley in Harlem. He was paid quite well, I must say. The Colonel fancies Shakespeare. The tragic figure of Hamlet’s unrequited love is his favorite, I believe.” He spoke as if in casual conversation and then, before either Jack or Annabelle could respond, he used his gun hand to gesture once more toward the door.
Jack grasped the handle of the door and pulled it open.
The vast cavity beyond was utterly dark, but unlike the musty, stuffy atmosphere Annabelle had been expecting, the air smelled fresh and conditioned and felt to be a comfortable room temperature.
Reese nudged her forward and she hesitantly put her hand up to touch Jack’s back, following him in as he cautiously stepped into the darkness.
The sound of their footsteps altered and Annabelle could tell that the surface they stood on was considerably smoother and more polished than the rough, trash-strewn concrete outside.
A clanking sound and a following thunk reverberated throughout the vast black space before them and then a humming sounded overhead. Jack knew enough to shield his eyes, but Annabelle was a little slower and the flash of brilliant white light that came next temporarily blinded her.
In a moment, she lowered her own hand and blinked, willing her eyes to adjust to the light.
“Please do come in,” said a voice from somewhere in the room. The words were heavy with a Southern accent, instantly bringing to mind peach trees and Spanish moss.
Annabelle looked around.
The interior of the warehouse was a veritable study in contrasts to the world outside the door behind them. There was no hint of spray paint or rubble or warped, mildewed wood. The large room had been furnished with two simple but comfortable and expensive-looking couches, facing each other across a coffee table at the center. A few side tables stood against two of the walls, and the floor had been re-finished in a cherry polished hard wood. The walls were stark white and decorated with canvas copies of famous paintings such as “The Dance” by Henry Matisse, and “Sunrise” by Claude Monet. He seemed to like color, abstract, perhaps, and beautiful.
But along one wall, there were no paintings. Instead, there hung steel manacles, crude, cruel and cold in their otherwise pleasant environment.
Annabelle stiffened when she saw these, and found herself scooting closer to Jack, who reciprocated by moving his tall body in front of hers.
There were several men in the room – Annabelle would wager somewhere between a dozen to fifteen.
All of them wore black but one.
That one was smiling. “My dear, don’t let the ornaments frighten you,” the man said. He was tall and portly, nearly round in the middle, and he was dressed from head to toe in white. His white shirt was tucked into a white pair of perfectly creased pants which appeared to be held up by nothing less than white, gold-clasped suspenders. On his feet were white wing-tipped shoes.
His face was of the friendly, familiar sort. It sported a mustache and beard, also white, and wire-rimmed glasses. Santa Claus?
No, Annabelle thought. Kentucky Fried Chicken.
Her eyes widened.The Colonel!
The Colonel glanced from her to the manacles on the wall and gave her a reassuring gesture. “Those aren’t for you, sweet heart,” he said in his thick Southern drawl. And then he looked away and nodded toward one of the other men in the room. “Gentlemen.”
At that, the throng of darkly dressed brutes in the room rushed toward Jack.
It was an instant brawl. Annabelle was thrown back into Reese, who caught her and pulled her back against the door, to relative safety.
Almost immediately, Annabelle could see why the Colonel had gone to the trouble of hiring so many strong-arms. By the time Jack was actually pinned to the wall and locked into place, all but five of the men originally standing were lying on the ground.
Annabelle’s heart pounded hard behind her rib cage. She found herself moving toward Jack, breathing heavily as if out of empathy for him. But Reese had tightened his grip on her arm. When she looked over at the him, he gave her a single shake of his head. Behind his glasses, Reese’s hazel eyes locked onto hers.
There was something there.
But Annabelle didn’t have a chance to decipher it before the Colonel’s voice once more grabbed her attention.
“Whew,” he said softly as he pulled a handkerchief out of his breast pocket and proceeded to wipe his brow as if he had been the one fighting. “Such a fuss.” He tsked. “Such a fuss.” He replaced the handkerchief and then gestured toward one of the two plush couches that furnished the large converted room.
“Please, Miss Drake. Have a seat.”
Annabelle hesitated, shooting a glance toward Jack. But he wasn’t looking at her. His gaze was focused straight ahead. His expression had gone dead. An entirely unreadable and nearly unrecognizable mask.
Reese nudged her forward and she hesitantly moved toward the white couch nearest to her.
“That’s it. Make yourself comfortable.”
Annabelle moved to the middle of the couch and sat down, facing the wall that Jack was manacled to. She stared up at him.
“I’m sure you’d both like to know what this mess is all truly about,” the Colonel said then. He moved so that he stood in between Annabelle and Jack, drawing her attention away from the wall and to his own portly presence.
So, she stared up at him instead, taking the opportunity to narrow her gaze and release a little of the pain and hatred she felt into the space between them. He only smiled at her.
“
I can understand your ire, Miss Drake. Reese has had to do something which I’m not entirely a fan of, but which was necessary, nonetheless.” He explained, his speech slow, the drawl a veritable caricature of his namesake’s. “Mr. Osborne wished that this matter be dealt with in such a way as to guarantee no further unwelcome disclosure of vital information.” He splayed his hands out in supplication. “Why, what was done simply had to be done,” he continued. “And that’s all there is to it.”
He moved around the couch and drew her attention to a side table which was topped with a tray containing several tea cups, saucers, and a few plates of cookies and muffins. He picked up the tray and brought it around to the small coffee table between the couches.
He took a seat on the couch opposite her. “Though it may be hard, try to eat something. I find certain foods soothe the soul.”
Annabelle didn’t move. Instead, she glared up at him. “Are you for real?” Her fevered, furious brain recoiled from the man in front of her. Surely, the Colonel Sanders thing had to be a joke. No one looked like this in real life. Was the facial hair stick-on?
He ignored the expression and went about pouring himself a cup of tea. “‘All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players; They have their exits and their entrances, and one man in his time plays many parts, his acts being seven ages.’” He put the tea pot down and stirred the sugar in his tiny china cup. “Shakespeare.”
“I know.” She told him through gritted teeth, her glare still in place. So, it was an act. He probably looked a little like the Colonel at first and maybe someone started calling him that. So, he decided to live it up. The bastard was eccentric, and that wasn’t good. Geniuses tended to be eccentric. Evil geniuses were always bad news.
“Now, where was I…Oh, yes. You’ll want to know what is transpiring. Please allow me to enlighten you. You see, my employer, a one Mr. Godrick Osborne, is the current president of research and development for the pharmaceutical company, MediSign.”
“I was right,” Annabelle said blandly. “It’s about medicine.” Her voice sounded far off, even to her own ears.
“Indeed, you are correct, Miss Drake,” the Colonel told her with a slight nod of his head. “Perhaps you have heard of the ‘Burning Man Syndrome’?” he asked.
Annabelle shook her head once.
“I’m not surprised, really. It’s quite rare and until recently, was so obscure as to be considered no more than a genetic anomaly. However, a very prominent politician happens to be unusually close to a particular case in North Carolina. His niece has Burning Man Syndrome, you see. She is eight.”
He paused in his speech and lifted his tea cup to his lips, taking a dainty sip that, when executed by a man of his stout stature, appeared at once farcical. “I won’t mention names, but let’s just say that this politician holds quite a lot of sway in his particular seat.” He took another sip. “Now it so happens that our Mr. Osborne is an adept business man with an eye for opportunity,” he continued as he replaced the cup in its saucer and set them both down on the coffee table. “Roughly eight years ago, he applied for a sizeable grant to study a drug for cholesterol already being used in Europe. When he applied for this grant, he was noticed and approached by the prominent politician. And he knew a prospect when he saw one.”
“Let me guess. The politician offered him more money if he promised to try to find a cure for Burning Man Syndrome,” Annabelle said. The pieces were locking themselves together in her head. Despite the muddled mess that was her current consciousness, she was beginning to understand where this was leading.
“Indeed,” the Colonel went on. “A lavish sum. The disease, known as Erythromelalgia in the medical community, is so obscure, Mr. Osborne claimed that the necessary equipment and materials would have to be concealed. MediSign would not approve of the studies. The operation would have to be somewhat… clandestine.”
“So he told him it would cost a fortune.”
“Which our politician was eager to pay. The money would come from lobbyists and special interests groups, over the course of several years. Mr. Osborne subsequently became quite wealthy.”
The Colonel picked up a sugar cookie from one of the delicate China platters and took a bite, spilling a few crumbs onto his white suit. With a furrowed brow, he brushed the crumbs away and took a napkin from the table as well, which he pressed against the corners of his mouth.
“Mr. Osborne, as any man would, had grown inclined to his supplemented income, when something happened which threw a kink in his designs.”
“Jesus.” Annabelle sat back against the couch. She’d figured it out.
“My dear, our Lord Christ has nothing whatsoever to do with this, I’m afraid.”
“Someone found a cure, didn’t they?” Annabelle asked softly, her gaze far away as she thought of Craig Brandt and Teresa Anderson. It must have been them…
“Mm,” the Colonel agreed solemnly, with a bow of his head as he replaced the napkin on the table and put down what remained of the cookie. He then placed his thumbs beneath his suspender straps and leaned back into the couch. “Well, now, a cure was the last thing Mr. Osborne wanted. With a cure would come an end to his money.”
“He had Teresa Anderson killed.” She had been working for MediSign six years ago, when she was murdered. But not in the research and development capacity. And even if she had, there was no guarantee that Osborne would have included her in his secret research project. She’d been a graphic designer. So… Maybe that was where Craig Brandt came in. They must have known each other. Maybe he worked in R and D. Maybe he worked on the Burning Man cure. And maybe he found one…
“Yes, that is so,” the Colonel admitted, with a nod. “And, it would seem, a few others as well.” He pinned Annabelle with a hard stare. “Which is where you come in, Miss Drake. I’m afraid I must ask that you tell me all you know about the message your former employer left for you. It is of grave importance. Mr. Osborne does not care to have this matter brought to anyone’s attention, for obvious reasons.” He paused, seeming to consider something for a moment.
With a frown, and, as if to himself, he muttered, “I am not the only man he has hired to clear up this mess.” Then he added, speaking directly to her again, “And I intend to do the job he has paid me to do.”
Annabelle blinked.
“Don’t tell him anything, Annabelle.”
Jack.
She stood, unable to stop herself. The Colonel was seated in front of her, blocking her view of Jack, and she needed to see him. It was the first time he’d spoken to her since the explosion. Their eyes met and his bored into hers. Blue sparks were flying in their depths. Blood trickled from his lip and a small cut marred his left cheek, where a bruise was blossoming beneath it. She swallowed, a sudden, hard shiver forcing her to hug herself.
The Colonel sighed. He put his hands on his knees and pushed himself up off of the couch.
At this point, most of the men who’d been laying on the ground after their struggle with Jack had awakened or come to their senses and pulled themselves up to take position along one wall. They watched the Colonel as the large man left the sofa to move toward a small half-oval table against one wall. On the polished wood table was a single wooden box. The Colonel opened the box and pulled out a whale bone pipe, which he placed between his teeth. Then he prepared the tobacco, shaking a good amount out of a small black packet and holding it in his left hand.
Annabelle watched as he rubbed it between his palms and, after pulling the pipe back out of his mouth, gently shook the tobacco into the end of the pipe. She realized she was sort of mesmerized by what he was doing and shook herself out of her stupor in time to look away as the Colonel began to tamp it down and reach for the lighter in the box.
She turned her attention back to Jack, who was watching her with nothing short of death in his eyes. Her heart slammed against her ribs. That was what he looked like. Death. And, well he should, she supposed. He was surrounded by it. His dau
ghter, his ex-wife… And now probably Annabelle would kick the bucket too; maybe right in front of him, if he didn’t do it first.
“I wouldn’t put too terribly much stock in what Mr. Thane tells you to do right now, Miss Drake. He’s a grieving man and may not have your best interests – or his – in mind at the moment. Such is the nature of grief.”
“You killed his daughter.” Annabelle couldn’t stop herself. It came out as a growling accusation. “You don’t have anyone’s best interests in mind but your own.”
The Colonel finished lighting his pipe, took a few small puffs, and then blew the smoke out with another sigh. “It was a regrettable necessity, as I’ve said. Young Clara was a lovely girl-”
At this, Jack jerked against his bonds, but it had no effect other than to cause the hard steel to dig into his flesh. Annabelle swung around and gasped when she saw blood trickle from those wounds as well.
The Colonel said nothing for a while and then put his pipe down in its stand and went to sit on the couch again.
“I’ll ask you once more, Miss Drake. What did Max Anderson leave for you?” His tone was resigned and he seemed slightly agitated. But more focused as well.
It made Annabelle very nervous.
She opened her mouth to tell him about the lap top, but a rattling of the chains against the wall stopped her short.
“Do NOT tell him a god damned thing, Annabelle.” Jack ordered through gritted teeth.
Don’t make Clara’s death worth nothing… The thought, which, at the moment, Annabelle wasn’t quite sure was entirely her own, echoed through the corridors of her mind.
“Very well.” The Colonel stood and gestured to two of the men against the wall. They moved toward Annabelle. Her eyes widened and she reflexively jumped up onto the couch to get away from them.
They hadn’t been expecting such a move. Perhaps outright fighting, yes, but avoidance through climbing furniture was not necessarily in their repertoire of techniques to deal with. So, it was somewhat clumsily that they dove for her as she jettisoned herself over the back of the couch to land solidly on both boots on the other side.
Hell Bent Page 17