Painless

by Derek Ciccone

  Stipe put his hands behind his head like he was performing a full-nelson wrestling move on himself. Naqui made it very clear that the sooner he told the true story, the sooner he could get the shot. Stipe grunted a pained sigh, and began.

  “We just finished our mission outside of Yazd. The Mi-17 was hovering overhead with Jones piloting. The copter was parked about twenty-feet over the desert and the Anesthesia soldiers were climbing the rope to safety. Just another day at the office. I was in charge, making sure everybody boarded. André Rose was the most experienced member, so he stood beside me, assisting the evacuation. The helicopter’s rotors were whipping, sand was flying everywhere, and visibility was minimal.”

  Naqui stood still, taking in every word, and trying to dissect the truths from the lies. Not an easy chore when it came to Stipe.

  “Then all hell broke lose,” Stipe went on. “André Rose kicked my gun away. Before I could react, sand filled my eyes and I was blinded. But I did manage to see Bronson Rose shoot me in the shoulder. Then Calvin Rose launched a grenade into the helicopter. The copter began to hover erratically. I knew right away it was going down.

  “You mean how you bailed on your men to save your sorry self?”

  Stipe’s face contorted in anger, but was in too much pain to fight.

  “Do you think it’s a coincidence they were brothers?” Naqui asked, even though he knew the answer.

  “Why don’t you get your head out of your curry-smelling ass. Of course it wasn’t. There was a major breakdown in security.”

  “Security is your responsibility.”

  “Jones was running the day-to-day at the plantation while I was on assignment. I did a full audit of the situation and found major gaps in listening devices, especially in moments when the Rose children were alone with their mother. They obviously found the listening devices and were playing Jones for a fool. I have addressed the problem.”

  “Stop trying to deflect the blame. Do you think that all three of the Rose children on that mission are in North America and working together?”

  Stipe pointed at the bag of teeth. “I think you’ll find that Calvin is no longer with us. But yes, I believe André Rose and his brother Bronson are here.”

  Naqui threw a fist into the air, showing rare outward emotion. They had to find the other two brothers or Operation Anesthesia would truly be over, as would they. “You lied to me, you son of a bitch!”

  “I’m taking care of the problem. So don’t worry your pretty dot-head over it.”

  “You’re taking care of it?” Naqui scoffed. “Do you at least know where the little girl is? She’s obviously not dead like those around her are trying to make people think.”

  Stipe folded open the laptop computer on Naqui’s desk and angled it so he could see. He typed in numerous passwords and clearance codes at security checkpoints, before a sophisticated map sequence displayed on the screen. Naqui’s eyes were drawn to the blinking orange-dot that was tracking Carolyn Whitcomb’s movement.

  “One thing your boy Jordan did well was plant that security chip in her back. If you notice on the GPS, they appear to be on a train headed toward Canada.” Stipe boasted, as if he wasn’t the one who lost them in the first place. He then punched keys and the map zoomed to a city level. It was sophisticated, but not their most sophisticated tracking system, which included video and voice tracking. Who would ever have thought they would’ve needed it with a four-year-old girl? Naqui thought with a sad shake of his head.

  “I guess they think they’ll be safe north of the border,” Stipe said, his tone actually cocky. The man had moxie, if nothing else.

  “Just like those cowards who tried to flee from their duty in Vietnam,” Naqui spat angrily, his eyes then shot daggers at Stipe. “What are you waiting for? You need to bring them in ASAP!”

  Stipe nodded his head in the direction of his pain medication.

  Naqui wanted to withhold it as a punishment, but needed Stipe at his best to clean up this mess. He applied the needle, and Stipe’s eyes rolled back in his head with ecstasy. “Ahh, doc, I want to smoke a cigarette after that.”

  He then got up and began to walk away with his arrogant swagger. “We’ll cuddle next time,” he said, flashing his cocky smirk, “I’ll give your regards to the Whitcombs.”

  Chapter 45

  Billy and Carolyn arrived at the train station in Montreal, Gare Centrale, just past noon. Billy had never been to Montreal, and the first thing he noticed was how French it was. He thought the English/French ratio might be fifty-fifty, but found it to be as French as Paris. All the signs were predominantly in French, as was the chatter of the surrounding conversations.

  “They talk funny,” Carolyn observed.

  Surrounded by the congestion of travelers in the train station made Billy feel like a sitting duck, floating in a sea of potential sharks.

  According to the Fodor’s guide, there were three real sections in Montreal. The historic section, filled with cultural landmarks and cobblestone streets. The modern downtown section featuring a skyline of glass office buildings typical of a major North American city. But they were going to the third section—the underground city—thirty kilometers of tunnels that networked the city’s shopping, dining, and major event areas.

  The underground city took off in the 1960s when the metro subway was built, and expanded over time to become what the travel guide hyped as “the biggest underground network in the world.” In the harsh Montreal winters, one could theoretically walk downtown, hit all the major shops and restaurants, and never leave the comforts of climate control.

  Billy wasn’t overly impressed, expecting something space age. It seemed like just a bunch of well-lit hallways surrounded by shopping and restaurants. It reminded him more of being in the airport than in the lost city of Atlantis.

  Carolyn, on the other hand, was a believer. “An underground city looks like fun!” She then beamed as a subway came to a halt. “Can we go on the underground train?”

  Billy didn’t like the idea of being locked in a subway car like a caged animal. If attacked, he preferred to have the option of escaping into the many underground tunnels.

  Carolyn took the ‘no’ in stride, too tired to negotiate.

  He saw how exhausted she was and couldn’t envision having to carry her. He needed her awake and alert. So he tried to keep her mind sharp by teaching French from his dictionary. He was talked into buying the dictionary by the clerk when he purchased his travel guide, and was now glad he did.

  “Carolyn, do you know what they call the underground city in French?”

  Her face perked up. While she wasn’t born with the ability to feel pain, she did inherit a relentless intellectual curiosity.

  “Tell me,” she shot back in an excited voice, her stride quickening to match Billy’s.

  “La ville souterraine,” he said with his best Pepé Le Pew accent.

  “La ville souterraine!” she shouted back with the accent of a four-year-old with a damaged tongue.

  The process continued.

  “Bonjour,” he said. “It means hello.”

  “Bonjour, Billy!”

  They followed the signs to Place Ville-Marie, a cruciform office tower that was on the cover of Billy’s travel guide. It was connected by tunnel to their destination—Centre Eaton, the biggest mall in Montreal. Billy saw it as a good place to get strategically lost for a couple hours while they figured out the all-important second part of the plan. Which was, how the hell were they going to find Bronson Rose? But first things first, they needed new clothing, preferably of the “warm and fluffy” variety.

  He took Carolyn to the GAP for Kids in Zone-5B of the mall. He initially got it mixed up with the Baby GAP, which led to a mini-meltdown, Carolyn insisting she wasn’t a baby. Maybe not, but she was definitely tired, and you can only beat the Sandman for so long. It was going to be a long day, and that was the good option.

  They settled on a candy-striped, cotton sweater and a pair of kh
akis for the young lady. A pair of sneakers he thought would make good walking shoes, and Beth would be impressed that he also bought her a fall jacket for the October temperatures, which could sink into the low forties at night. He rounded out the outfit with a very French looking beret. The beret was to help conceal her identity, but it also seemed to make her happy.

  Billy paid with cash. Their funds were limited, so they needed to ration. He would only use the ATM in an emergency. He didn’t need to give Operation Anesthesia any help.

  He also purchased Carolyn a backpack, a compromise that allowed her to keep her hockey jersey. Her name was embroidered on the back, so putting it in the public garbage didn’t seem like a good idea. She kept the jersey in the backpack, but Billy got rid of the rest of the clothing in a garbage can located in a woman’s bathroom in Zone-4.

  But Billy was deflated by the knowledge she had been traveling around with a large name-tag, or more specifically, a bull’s-eye on her back. How many other mistakes had they made? He couldn’t even calculate how far over their heads they were.

  Chapter 46

  Keeping on the move, they traveled to an upscale men’s clothing store in Zone-3. From his brief time in Montreal, Billy had observed that the style was black, black, and more black. So he purchased a pair of black jeans and black turtleneck. He also bought a black leather jacket, black boots, and black knit cap in case they went outside later. When in Rome, do as the Romans do.

  He also noticed that everyone in Montreal had a cigarette plastered to their lips. Or a Cuban cigar since Canada didn’t have the same trade restrictions with Cuba as the US. So keeping with the when in Rome theory, he stopped at a specialty store and bought a pack of cigarettes. Carolyn settled for a box of candy cigarettes. He needed her at her best, and hoped the sugar might put some pep in her step.

  He stashed his old clothes in a men’s bathroom in Zone-1, the ground floor. It was now time to eat. They hadn’t eaten since the post-hunting feast from the night before, which seemed like years ago.

  They found a food court in the first zone and chose a glorified hot dog stand called Franx Supreme. It was a perfect match—they specialized in making hot dogs and Carolyn specialized in eating them. The hot dogs came with a side of poutines, which were Canada’s contribution to the quadruple bypass. A heavenly-evil combination of potatoes, cheese, and gravy that was deliciously delicious.

  For some reason Billy’s paranoia subsided. Maybe it was the feeling of safety in numbers that the crowded food court provided. But he knew the feeling couldn’t be trusted.

  Carolyn dug in to her hot dog like she hadn’t eaten in a day.

  “You doing better?” Billy asked.

  “I like shopping and eating, I won’t deny it.”

  “I think in Montreal they might call it le shopping,” he said with a smile.

  He took another glance at Carolyn, now slurping down her lemonade, with ketchup and mustard spread across her cheeks. And suddenly a feeling came over him like a sharp chill on a winter day. It was the overwhelming feeling of responsibility that comes with the knowledge that a young child’s life is at your mercy. It was clear his lone mission in this life was to keep Carolyn safe, even if it meant sacrificing his own life. And his paranoia returned with gusto.

  “I like le shopping, but I’m still a little sad,” she replied.

  “Maybe we should have a pity party for you then.”

  A dab of excitement arose from her grimace. “A pity party sounds like fun!”

  Billy’s eyes roamed each person in the food court. Any of them, from children to grandparents could have been a plant. It was overwhelming. Like a nervous habit, he reached into the pocket of his new black jeans. He pulled out the pack of cigarettes and lit up. Everybody else in the food court seemed to be doing it—when in Rome.

  Carolyn’s face scrunched. “That’s icky.”

  He puffed. “I only smoke when I drink, get divorced, or I’m running for my life,” he rationalized with a forced chuckle.

  Carolyn’s face turned from disgust to inquisitive. “You got divorced?”

  “I think in Montreal they would call it le divorce,” he tried to deflect, but there was no way to charm his way out of this one.

  “My friend Carly’s parents got divorced,” she said, then had an epiphany. “And so did my friend Tori, and my friend Sam, and my friend Nicole, and my…well…a lot of my friends parents got divorced.” She was counting them on her fingers, but quickly ran out of digits.

  “Do you know what divorce is?”

  “When the daddy and the mommy yell at each other a lot and then move into different houses and tell my friends it’s not their fault.” Then she seemed to remember something. “They also get lots of gifts.”

  “Something like that.”

  “My mom and dad aren’t getting divorced, are they?”

  “Of course not, they love you too much.”

  “Carly’s parents didn’t love her?”

  “That’s not what I meant. I’m sure Carly’s parents love her very much.”

  Carolyn wasn’t listening, she was deep in thought. Billy didn’t interrupt her. It sounded strange to say about a four-year-old, but she was a deep thinker, and it was one of the things he enjoyed most about her. He was rarely around women who were. His mother surely wasn’t. He had many names for Kelly, deep thinker wasn’t one of them. The high school groupies before her weren’t, and neither were the bimbos like Kaylee who followed. Just because you go to college doesn’t make you a deep thinker.

  Carolyn gathered her thoughts, before pushing on like a mini Mike Wallace, “So you got le divorced?”

  “Actually I got kicked-in-the-balls divorced.”

  Carolyn flashed a perturbed look at his stall tactics.

  “I guess in Montreal they would answer your question by saying we-we,” he continued to filibuster, bad French accent included.

  “I don’t haff to go we-we, silly, I just wanna know if you got divorced.”

  Unable to divert a four-year-old working on two hours of sleep, he reluctantly came clean. “Yes, Carolyn, I did.”

  The wheels were still turning. “Why?”

  “My wife wanted to paint the chicken with somebody else, I guess.”

  “Why would she do that?”

  “Grownups do weird things sometimes.”

  “Grownups are silly,” she said, before a look of concern overtook her face. “Were you sad?”

  “For a long time I was, but then I found a new person to paint the chicken with and my pain started to go away.”

  “Who?”

  “You.”

  She smiled. “We’re never getting divorced, Billy.”

  “Stick together, remember?”

  She held her nose. “If you get rid of those icky cigarettes we will.”

  Billy tossed them onto the tray of ketchup-stained garbage. “Deal.”

  They clinked Styrofoam cups and Carolyn offered him a candy cigarette. They were again a united front, but a united front facing a big problem—where to even start looking for Bronson Rose? Billy flipped through his travel guide searching for magical answers.

  “Where would miracles occur in Montreal?” he mumbled out loud. They had to get to him before Operation Anesthesia got them.

  Then he saw it.

  He grabbed Carolyn’s hand and headed out of the food court. He knew where Bronson Rose was looking for his miracle.

  Chapter 47

  Built on the northwestern slope of Mount Royal, the octagonal dome of St. Joseph’s Oratory dominated the Montreal skyline. According to Billy’s guide, the dome that rests on top of the basilica was the second largest in the world after St. Peter’s in Rome.

  With Carolyn by his side, Billy boarded a metro at McGill Station. The route swung to the south, before looping around to the western part of the city, where they got off at the Côte-des-Neiges stop. That left them only a short walking distance from St. Joseph’s.

  The church was built
in the early 20th century by the famed healer, Brother Andre Bessette. While working as the doorkeeper at Notre Dame College in Montreal, Bessette gained national prominence after an epidemic broke out at a nearby college, and he was credited with saving all souls. From that point on, he was hailed as a miracle worker and inundated with letters requesting his healing powers. At his death in 1937, he still received over eighty thousand letters a year. But what interested Billy most was that Bessette built this oratory as a tribute to St. Joseph, on whom he bestowed all credit for his miracles.

  Bronson went to Montreal seeking a miracle.

  The main church was massive, featuring striking stained glass windows and a grand altar. Mass wasn’t in session, but worshippers mingled throughout the colossal church.

  Billy eyed each worshipper as he and Carolyn strolled up the center aisle toward the altar. Billy was on the lookout for a man who had some resemblance to Calvin, guessing that the brothers looked similar, but nobody met the description. But without a picture he couldn’t be sure. He felt like Robert Langdon, the hero from the Da Vinci Code, hunting through ancient churches for the Holy Grail. But Langdon was at least armed with a lifetime of knowledge on the subject. All Billy had was a ten-dollar travel guide and an exhausted four-year-old.

  Billy continued his when in Rome strategy. He knelt before the altar and performed the sign of the cross. Carolyn followed his lead, thinking it was some sort of game. Billy noticed life-size wooden statues of the twelve apostles behind the altar. He hoped the wise men could help point him in the right direction.

  After saying a few “I know we haven’t talked in a while, but I need all the help I can get right now” prayers, Billy took Carolyn’s hand and moved down a stairwell that led to a smaller crypt church. A larger-than-life, white marble statue of St. Joseph stole his eye, but nobody resembling Calvin Rose’s brother. Dejectedly, Billy moved on.

  Behind the crypt was a room illuminated by hundreds of candles lit in honor of St. Joseph. The walls were lined with crutches donated by those convinced that they were cured by Brother Andre. In the shadow of candlelight, Billy spotted what he came for.