Painless

by Derek Ciccone

  The man’s skin tone was lighter, but his facial features were strikingly similar. He wore a long sleeved black shirt, making it impossible to spot any type of rose tattoo he might have. He wore a necklace, but it hung under his shirt, making it indeterminable if it contained the rose insignia. They would have been easy identification markers, which is likely why he covered them. Operation Anesthesia trained their recruits to slip unnoticed into any situation. Now it was working against them.

  The man’s eyes were in constant motion, as if he were scouting escape hatches. Billy knew he couldn’t afford to spook him. So he grabbed Carolyn’s hand, calmly walked her to the row of candles, and helped her light one. He was surprised that the fire didn’t make her squeamish after last night. Billy kept one eye on Carolyn, the other on the man he thought was Bronson Rose.

  The man knelt down in front of the rows of candles. He performed a sign of the cross and began to pray, closing his paranoid eyes. Billy took a candle into his hand and knelt beside him. He needed to confirm his hunch, so he gradually moved the candle until the flame was burning at the man’s earlobe. He held it there for at least ten seconds. Billy had heard of people who enter such an altered state during prayer that they are oblivious to anything around them. But he knew it wasn’t the case here. The man didn’t even flinch—he couldn’t feel pain or temperature. They had found Bronson Rose!

  Maybe miracles do happen in Montreal.

  Bronson came out of his prayer like a sprinter out of the blocks, his temporary peaceful state had returned to frenzy. He bolted out of the room, exiting a back door of the church. Billy and Carolyn followed, keeping a safe distance. Bronson passed a splendid garden with life-size representations of the fourteen traditional Stations of the Cross. He then walked around to the front of the main church, and like many of the others who made the pilgrimage, Bronson began climbing the three hundred steps up the church from street level. On his knees!

  Carolyn’s eyes widened. “That looks like fun!”

  For Bronson and Carolyn, who felt no pain, the climb was a breeze. For Billy, who had numerous aches and pains he referred to as “old football injuries,” he found it…painful.

  Upon reaching the top, Bronson re-entered the church. Carolyn wanted to “do it again,” but Billy sold her on a new adventure. In this one, she had to be as quiet as she could as they quietly followed Bronson into the area inside the church where Bessette’s tomb was on display. But just as fast as Bronson entered, he left, exiting through a side entrance to the church. Billy wondered if the roundabout route was designed to make sure he wasn’t being followed. This time Bronson descended the stairs by foot and headed up the blacktopped paths of Mount Royal.

  Billy and Carolyn cautiously trailed Bronson to the top of the peak, which was only about seven hundred feet above sea level, but gave the illusion that they were standing atop Everest, looking down on the skyline of Montreal.

  Billy examined Bronson from a distance, noticing that his hands shook continuously. His eyes danced from side to side. Whatever miracle he sought, he surely hadn’t found it yet. He was not at peace.

  Billy had his own problems. He was not in what he would call “game shape” and his lungs burned as he followed Bronson through the steep paths of the mountain. Carolyn was able to maintain Billy’s tempered pace, her backpack bouncing lightly on her back. But he could tell her batteries needed to be recharged. On top of that, nightfall was beginning to descend upon Montreal, increasing their degree of difficulty.

  When Bronson reached the bottom, he picked up a bus at Côte-des-Neiges. Billy’s heart sank—they had to catch the bus. He started running, but suddenly recognized that Carolyn no longer was by his side. He looked back to find her standing like a statue—she had nothing left. His eyes moved back to the bus and then returned to Carolyn. He ran back to her and hoisted her over his shoulder. He ran at the bus like a torpedo, shouting, “Wait!”

  The bus did wait, but the desperate plea gave away any anonymity. Suddenly all eyes were on them, including Bronson’s. Billy pulled down his knit cap, Carolyn following suit with her beret. Not knowing how to work the transfer made them stand out even more. A French accent shouted from the back of the bus, “Stupid American!”

  Billy escorted Carolyn to the back of the bus, fighting off any urge to make eye contact with Bronson as they passed by him. From the back of the bus, Billy could observe Bronson undetected. Unless he had eyes in the back of his head, and Billy wasn’t ruling anything out at this point.

  Bronson’s body language was of a trapped rat. His leg tapped like an electric hammer and his dilated pupils were a festival of nervous energy. When the bus reached the Sherbrooke Avenue stop, Bronson made his move. He waited until just before the bus started to move and then bolted off. A tactic that would expose anybody following him. Like amateur hour, Billy and Carolyn got up and followed. Bronson looked back and locked eyes. Busted. The minute Bronson hit pavement he was in full sprint.

  Billy hoisted Carolyn and pursued. His lungs wheezed in the cold night air, but he could still call on some of the skills that once made him a top-flight athlete, and was able to close some ground. “Wait—we just want to talk to you!” he yelled in desperation.

  Bronson never looked back, running fearlessly with sprinter speed, eventually descending a stairwell into an underground metro station at Guy-Concordia. Billy picked up the pace, but was losing ground.

  Billy gripped Carolyn tightly as he barreled down the stairs. He searched frantically with his eyes, in peril of losing their last hope. But then he spotted Bronson straight ahead, as did most of the people at the Guy-Concordia stop. He was the only person sprinting like Carl Lewis. Billy saw that he was making a dash for a waiting subway car.

  Billy ran as fast as he could, pushing though the bustling crowds. Having Carolyn draped over his shoulder was slowing him down, but he refused to let it stop him. They just beat the closing doors of the subway and stood out of breath in the back of the car. He eyed Bronson—lengthwise down the car—who fiercely returned the gaze. It was like a showdown in the Wild West. Nobody moved—they were trapped.

  When they arrived at the Pie-IX station, Bronson pushed his way through the crowd and out of the car, and was on the move again. Billy chugged after him, Carolyn bouncing on his shoulder as he galloped up the stairwell and exited the subway station. His shoulder ached—it was the one operated on in college—but compared to the steps of the church, it was a piece of cake.

  The chase continued. They passed a concrete eyesore called Olympic Stadium that was built for the 1976 Olympics. Bronson ran like he was seeking his own version of a gold medal. But Billy noticed a change in his body language. It was as if he was no longer running from them, but instead, was running toward something as he veered left onto Hochelaga.

  About a mile north on Hochelaga, Bronson disappeared into a dark, one-story building.

  Moments later, Billy and Carolyn arrived, huffing and puffing. Billy read the sign, and couldn’t help but to laugh. He set Carolyn down and said, “I think you’re home, princess.”

  The place was called Les Princesses.

  Chapter 48

  The helicopter floated over a vast, sepulchral lake. Nothing but the dark water could be seen in any direction. Then it suddenly began to descend—fast—down…down…down.

  Beth could move her head, but that was all. She was strapped, paralyzed, in a space-age looking wheelchair. While she couldn’t move, she was cognizant of her surroundings. She tried to scream numerous times, but nothing came out. It reminded her of a medical documentary she’d watched about patients who awoke during surgery. The effects of their anesthesia had worn off and they were in mind-boggling pain, but unable to scream out. The cruelest of nightmares. And one that Beth was now living.

  The sun was setting behind them, beautiful orange streaks filling the darkening skies. The doctor—the one who had paralyzed her and Chuck—told them they were traveling to heaven, and should relax and enjoy the tr
ip. She visualized heaven in numerous forms over the years, but in no scenario was a fiery helicopter crash involved. But strangely, if she were dead, it would be the most normal thing to happen to her in a while.

  The journey began that morning when an FBI agent named Hasenfus came to their home. He accused her and Chuck of faking the fire at the cabin. They had a prepared answer for that accusation, but what the FBI agent said next knocked her out of orbit. He claimed they had wrongly trusted Billy Harper, a man with a violent past, who was working with Operation Anesthesia to deliver Carolyn to them for a price. Hasenfus alleged to have learned this because Calvin Rose, an escapee from Operation Anesthesia, was working undercover for the FBI to take them down. But Calvin’s loyalties turned back to Operation Anesthesia, reneging on his agreement with the FBI. He ended up helping Billy seize Carolyn, and then committed suicide before the Feds could get to him. Hasenfus explained that those “attacking” them by boat were actually members of a FBI Task Force, who were trying to save Carolyn from Billy and Calvin.

  To further his point, the FBI agent showed them disturbing pictures of a woman, her face badly beaten by her husband—Billy! By the guilty look on Chuck’s face, Beth knew he’d kept this news from her. Hasenfus theorized that Billy planned to deliver Carolyn to either Bronson or André Rose, and pushed her to give up Billy’s location so that they could “save” Carolyn.

  Beth had made a pact with Chuck to not reveal that information under any circumstance, but now everything had changed. Billy could be dangerous, and he was in possession of Carolyn. Beth was about to scream “Montreal!” at the top of her lungs, when she remembered where she’d seen Hasenfus before. It had been bugging her since he showed up unannounced at the barn. He was the security man from Jordan Plantation. She didn’t know the exact purpose of his charade, but one look into his beady eyes told her that he was up to no good.

  “I think you should wear sunblock, Mr. Stipe, to protect you from the ubee rays,” she said, blowing his cover. Carolyn’s instincts were correct once again.

  She didn’t have much time to gloat over her discovery. She and Chuck were gagged, blindfolded, and stuffed into the back of a black sedan like a stereotypical scene from a mafia movie. When the blindfolds were released, Beth recognized that they were at Teterboro Airport in New Jersey, a place she’d flown out of on numerous occasions as a young girl on the Boulanger private jet. It was the airport of choice for many of the wealthy in the New York area.

  They were transported onto one of the numerous Lear jets parked at Teterboro. Chuck struggled with the shackles on his hands and ankles, but Beth didn’t fight. Her thoughts were solely on her daughter, and her mother’s intuition told her that fighting these monsters wasn’t going to help Carolyn’s cause. She would do whatever it took to protect her. Even if that meant sacrificing his own life.

  Hasenfus accompanied them onto the plane with two other burly goons, posing as FBI agents. They used the names Regan and Poindexter, which Beth recognized as players from the Iran Contra scandal, and there seemed to be some inside joke behind it. They sat on the tarmac for about half an hour before a Pakistani man boarded. He had salt and pepper hair and carried a black leather doctor’s bag, similar to those used back when house calls were en vogue. He removed a long needle from the bag and injected both Beth and Chuck. They were instantly paralyzed.

  “Looks like my work’s done here—I’m going to pick up Carolyn. Expect her arrival by morning,” the cocky Hasenfus said as he arrogantly limped off the plane. A few minutes later, after taking Beth and Chuck’s vitals, the Pakistani also left.

  Regan and Poindexter remained, along with a pilot. They flew to an open field in God-knows-where, and she and Chuck were transferred to a helicopter. Which brought them to the current predicament.

  Just when it looked like they were about to crash into the lake, and they would need a miracle of Captain Sully proportions, land appeared. The helicopter found an oasis in the middle of a thick forest and touched down on the ground.

  Regan and Poindexter ushered them off the helicopter. Beth had no idea where they were, but it looked familiar. The air was more humid than in Connecticut, although the lake provided a nice breeze. Mosquitoes gouged Beth’s skin, but she could do nothing about it.

  “Welcome to Fantasy Island. Mr. Roarke will be with you shortly,” Regan announced, or maybe it was Poindexter, Beth wasn’t sure which was which. She assumed he was kidding, but nothing was outside the limits of possibility these days.

  Then suddenly standing before them, flashing his charming smile, was not Mr. Roarke or his diminutive partner, Tattoo.

  It was Dr. Samuel Jordan.

  Chapter 49

  Beth now understood where they were. The helicopter had brought them for a return visit to Jordan Plantation. But she got the idea that this trip would be less hospitable.

  Jordan eagerly began telling the story of Operation Anesthesia like he was a peppy host of a late night infomercial. He boasted that the plantation had been the headquarters of Operation Anesthesia for the last twenty-plus years, and for the most part he confirmed the gist of what Calvin had told them at the cabin. He forgot to mention this on their first visit.

  Beth was struck by how arrogant it was to have brought them here as invited guests just weeks ago. Like a dress rehearsal. But when Jordan mentioned that Kerry Rutherford, the head of US intelligence, was involved, she realized the conspiracy went all the way to the top and gave them good reason to be arrogant. The plantation was an impenetrable fortress, just like Operation Anesthesia. She felt her little remaining will evaporating into the muggy air.

  Jordan took advantage of an audience that had no other choice but to sit and take in his every word. It sure wasn’t a children’s story, even if children were the main characters. He saved the most accolades for himself, asserting that when Anesthesia first began, it appeared to be one of those ideas that looked better on paper. The affliction was rare, so the pool of recruits wasn’t large. And a lot of capital was required to support Franklin Stipe, the supposed security guy, and his men scouring the world for recruits. And when they were successful, the captured children often had already mutilated themselves to the point of rendering them useless, or they were inflicted by fevers and overheating caused by CIPA. The overheating, especially since much of their work would be done in the heat of the desert, was a huge hurdle to overcome, but once again Jordan’s medical brilliance saved the day, coming up with a solution to cool the systems of the soldiers.

  But Jordan understood that success wasn’t going to be determined by those who already had the genetic disorder. There was just too few of them out there. Success would come from breeding. He compared himself to Henry Ford, understanding that the key to the production of automobiles was not the automobile itself, but the assembly line to mass-produce them. It was a genetic disorder that needed both parents to pass it on. The focus turned to the parents, and like the automobile, Operation Anesthesia took off.

  Beth now understood why she and Chuck were here—to breed more CIPA children! They weren’t just after Carolyn.

  They traveled to the manor house, Jordan leading the way, practically skipping across the vast lawn as Regan and Poindexter followed, pushing Beth and Chuck.

  “And let me assure you that you have nothing to fear. Carolyn will be arriving safely tomorrow without a hair harmed on her pretty head,” Jordan said.

  Beth made desperate eye contact with Chuck. She knew just the mention of Carolyn’s name shot lightning through him. He struggled hopelessly, but his body remained cement. Beth so badly wanted to soothe his frustrations.

  The manor house looked similar to their first visit, but felt different. Jordan stopped and turned to them. Beth wanted to run away from him—run for their lives—but could only sit helplessly in her wheelchair.

  “You are here because of the extraordinary gifts you and your daughter possess. I did not choose for you to be here, you were called by a much higher power. The world
is in a constant revolution of evolution, and whether you know it or not, you are revolutionaries.”

  If Beth could have rolled her eyes, she would have. She settled for boring a hole through him with her steely gaze, but he appeared oblivious.

  “I know change can be unsettling, but like I tell the children, we will soon turn those frowns upside down. And how could we not? An idyllic landscape, no bills, no debt, and none of the mindless pressures of everyday life. You will live in luxury and watch Carolyn, along with your other children, grow happily in a utopian world—no crime, no hate, no racism, no poverty.”

  For some strange reason, Beth wasn’t feeling that thankful. Her frown remained upright and sturdy.

  “Some would contend that living here would cost you your freedom of choice,” Jordan continued. “But that’s a fallacy. You are modern day royalty and will be treated like such. Royalty is not a choice, nor is it free.”

  They moved down the stairs into the musty English basement. Regan and Poindexter carried the wheelchairs down the steps, and Jordan actually apologized for the 18th-century mansion not being “wheelchair accessible.”

  The next stop was a wine cellar that Jordan had showed them on their initial visit. There, they boarded a service elevator. On there original tour, Jordan told an inquiring Carolyn that the elevator went to the boiler room. She negotiated to take a ride on it, convinced that Jordan must be Willy Wonka since he had an elevator in his house, and the elevator really would lead to a chocolate factory. But Beth now knew it didn’t lead to a chocolate factory or a boiler room, but something more sinister. Carolyn must’ve figured that out, at least in a general sense, which was why her mood suddenly spiraled during dinner. Beth scolded herself for not listening to her angel.