Black Sunrise

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Black Sunrise Page 7

by Brett Godfrey


  She would be grateful for just a sheet, or even a burlap sack.

  And some water in the bowl.

  Their captors were dehumanizing them. She considered the effort that had obviously gone into the construction of the cage, the presence of the toilet and the water, and her spirits lifted slightly. Whoever had taken them must plan to keep them alive, at least for a while. As she wondered what other preparations they had made, she realized something that made her sigh with relief—rape, torture and abuse might not be the reason they’d taken them.

  They might only be after money.

  Surviving this ordeal, regardless of the motives of her abductors, would require her to keep her mind sharp and her emotions under control. If she could face whatever was coming with her eyes open, she could find a way to deal with it, provided they stopped drugging her.

  Her father had taught her that her mind was her only real weapon. She knew this to be true, and when she was drugged, her mind was useless. And in this situation, beauty was a liability. Christie’s only advantages right now were her intelligence and her self-control.

  And Jackie.

  Feeling slightly guilty at the thought, Christie considered how much worse it would be if she were here in the cage alone.

  Whatever happened, she would do her best to protect Jackie.

  She thought of her time at SALO—Survival and Leadership Outdoors—a youth leadership school near Jackson Hole, Wyoming. Her father had sent her there during the summer between high school and college. At SALO, she’d scaled cliff walls, forded rivers, learned to build fires using only what was available in nature, spanned ravines and learned leadership skills. All the activities had challenged her, and while some parts of the course had scared the crap out of her, she’d loved every minute. Each activity had aimed to deliver one message: you can do it. Whatever it is, you can do it—if you observe, learn, plan and execute: SALO’s version of the famous loop developed by the Air Force military tactician John Boyd. As a pilot in survival school, her father had learned about the OODA loop. He’d taught it to her before she’d even gone to SALO: observe, orient, decide and act.

  In her mind, she could still see and hear SALO coaches drilling their messages into her and her fellow students as they’d kayaked whitewater rapids, hung from rock walls and huddled around campfires at night. Use your head, control your emotions and have faith in yourself. Above all else, never quit. When you’re the only friend you have, don’t abandon yourself. At SALO, she had learned the importance of fighting panic and self-doubt. The experience had been one of the most valuable gifts her dad had ever bought for her. He had drummed into her that being able was the most important thing, earned by a lifetime of work and effort, and rewarded by a lifetime of achievement and satisfaction.

  What lessons had she learned at SALO that could help her now?

  She pictured the head instructor, Peter Gundersen, a former master rock climber. A spinal tumor had paralyzed him, but he’d taught his students from a sport-modified wheelchair. What would he tell her?

  Ask yourself questions.

  Okay. Where are we?

  She had no idea.

  Well, what do I know?

  I know I’m so thirsty I’m about to drink out of the toilet.

  Think, Christie! What happened? What can you remember?

  She pushed herself to probe the jumbled images in her memory.

  The mall. She’d been at the Cherry Creek Mall with Jackie. They had been shopping.

  Okay. That’s a start. What else?

  She remembered Jackie had been worried about a dent in Robert’s car. She envisioned the car in her mind, and her stomach hurt. That was the last thing she could remember.

  Go over it again.

  What about the dent?

  Jackie had been worried Robert would be angry. And then—

  Oh, yeah. That man came up and offered to fix the dent.

  She remembered he had a large, hooked nose that reminded her of an Indian chief. A heavy black mustache, which she’d guessed he cultivated to make his nose appear less pronounced. What was his name—Jimmy Waters or something? Or was it Jimmy Rivers? Yes, that was it, Jimmy Rivers. And his dad was there too, in a car. He owned Dad’s Body Shop.

  Then she remembered the rest.

  He shot us with stun guns.

  She cursed her stupidity—how mindless she had been.

  She remembered waking up in the trunk of a car—that part hadn’t left her. She had wet herself while screaming into her gag, nearly suffocating. She’d heard choking in the darkness. She remembered the horrible smell.

  Then the older man, the sadist with the huge knife.

  She’d been sure he was going to cut her throat. The memory caused her eyes to well over slightly, but she willed away her weakness. Prying out these details was like drilling through rock, as though her mind had walled them off. She guessed that the drugs were blocking her memory. She’d have to be persistent and tease out one detail after another.

  Okay, Christie. Good so far. What else?

  Sunlight streaming through Antonio’s eyelids awakened him, warming his face, making him sweat.

  He felt like shit.

  He checked his watch. It was almost eleven. He’d slept on the couch in his clothes and boots. His head hurt, and his neck was very stiff. He’d been dreaming about sex, but he couldn’t remember the dream. He had an erection. He was starved, thirsty and had to piss.

  He could hear Beeman rattling around in the kitchen. “Good morning, sunshine. Feeling a little hung over?”

  “Hung big over,” Antonio mumbled as he slid his legs to the floor and rose to his feet.

  Beeman handed him a mug of coffee. “You look like a man who needs a fresh start. Care for some ibuprofen?” Beeman rattled a small plastic bottle.

  Antonio let Beeman shake a couple of Advil gelcaps into his palm. Then he took a sip of coffee to wash them down.

  Beeman watched him walk stiffly to the bathroom. He had to slow the fool down without appearing to do so. He’d control him—as he had been doing for months since meeting him—without Antonio realizing he was manipulating him. He had long since mastered the art of pulling Antonio’s strings, starting on the night of their first meeting at an upscale gentlemen’s club. Requiring someone like Antonio to make the present experiment possible, Beeman had trolled strip joints until he found the right subject. Then he’d spent months exploring, cultivating and controlling various recesses and impulses in Antonio’s cluttered, dysfunctional mind.

  Antonio’s libido had been the key, of course. That, coupled with his profound self-doubt and sense of alienation.

  Beeman had picked the right man.

  Now, a year after their first “chance” meeting, they had come so far. He would have to control the experiment very carefully, for now there was something to lose. A year of work, a massive amount of risk, and now all the pieces were in place. He could not let all of it go to waste due to uncontrolled, undisciplined and impulsive foolishness.

  His human laboratory was now equipped and provisioned, and it was time to begin—but slowly, with purpose and keen observation.

  In fact, Beeman was conducting an experiment with three separate organisms, all Homo sapiens, who were merely large, organized colonies of cells working together as a complex system. The invisible central driving force was the same as any living system: death.

  Life is death is life. Harness death to harness life and all existence.

  He would have to mold each of the three organisms into its role. When Antonio killed one—or both—of the girls, it was imperative that he be completely sober, conscious and aware of the fact he was destroying another living being, so that he would absorb his victims and not merely murder them. Beeman’s ability to study the process, and its effect upon Antonio, would depend upon elimination of transient urges—momentary flashes of passion. They must filter and distill the driving forces, leaving only the Primal Ecstasy—the deep, pervasive compulsion t
o live by creating death and spinning it like a spider web. It serves as a conduit for the fundamental channel that ebbs and flows like the sea—powerful enough to batter rock into fine sand—in the souls of those living organisms that chart the path of evolution.

  It was equally essential that each girl, as she died, understood her role in the process. She would need to be the prey, the Eaten, and to be as aware as Antonio would be when she surrendered her existence to him, willingly or not, so that he might thrive as a predatory consumer of life and in so doing metamorphosize into something new.

  “I can’t believe I fucking fell asleep,” Antonio groused. “We wasted a night.”

  Beeman smiled and waved his hand dismissively. “No rush, my friend. Anticipation is at least half of the fun.”

  Antonio blinked at him and gulped his coffee. “Did you do anything?”

  Beeman went still, stifling his reaction. Then realizing with relief what Antonio was asking, he shook his head. “Too much to drink.”

  “Me too. Reminds me of a date I had once. Ruined it before I even got started. Never saw her again.”

  “They’re ours now, Antonio. We’d be stupid to rush. Savor it. We can take our time and work into things slowly. I promise you it will be much more exquisite that way. All the work we’ve gone to—we need to move slowly and savor each bit.”

  “Yeah, I guess.” Antonio looked at his watch. “Shit. Almost time for the bus. Maybe I should just call in—”

  “No,” Beeman smoothly cut him off. “This is your alibi. This is vital to your safety and survival.” Beeman emphasized words in a weird way that drove them like spikes into Antonio’s mind, making ideas immovable and permanent, foreclosing avenues of argument but clarifying things in a way that made sense. “You must report for work on time. You must have a safety net. Remember, we’re risking life in prison.”

  Antonio stroked his mustache with a glazed expression. “Okay.”

  “Antonio, we’ve got to do this right, according to our plan, like a symphony.” Beeman gripped Antonio’s arm tightly, his metallic voice drilling into the younger man with characteristic force and intensity. “While you’re gone, I’ll stay away from them completely, except to feed and clean them. And look over them. They’ll be ready for you when you get back. Just for you.” Beeman released Antonio’s arm. “Trust me.”

  “Okay.” Antonio looked at his watch again, and Beeman knew he’d gotten through.

  “Just three short days. Vary nothing in your routine.”

  “Okay. But how do I explain my missing car?”

  “Ride your motorcycle, go to the bar in Salida as we discussed.” Beeman smiled and shrugged. “Talk about your boring weekend at home. I’ll spend some time in town after I drop you off at the station. Stock up on groceries and a few other things. Maybe go for a hike.”

  “Shouldn’t we at least check on them?”

  Beeman shook his head. “We can’t risk you missing the bus.”

  “Okay,” Antonio said. “But I’ve got to see them, just for a minute.”

  “Don’t spoil it, Antonio,” Beeman chided, his voice taking on a metallic ring of authority that made Antonio cringe. “Let me get them cleaned up and ready for you. That’s all. It will be so much more exciting for you that way.”

  “Okay.” Antonio’s resolve deflated.

  Beeman took him by the arm and guided him to the garage.

  “You’ll be back before you know it.”

  Chapter 12

  Mark and Janet Jensen stood at the front door of Robert Sand’s elegant single-story house in the heart of Bonnie Brae, one of Denver’s oldest high-end neighborhoods. The home was red brick and looked like it dated from the thirties. Ancient trees formed an overhead canopy running the length of the avenue, shading impeccably manicured yards. The neighborhood exuded a sense of quiet understatement. Jensen was mildly surprised; he’d expected Sand’s neighborhood to be livelier, younger somehow. But why had he? He’d known Sand was older and wealthy, so he should have reflected instead of making blind assumptions.

  Guard against stereotypes, monitor your assumptions, he cautioned himself as he reached for the bell. Before he touched the button, the heavy oak door swung inward, revealing a trim and very fit African American man with splashes of gray at his temples. “I’m Robert Sand. Please, come in.” Sand stood back and motioned them into his home, shaking hands. “Very glad to meet you both. Coffee and snacks in the kitchen. Let’s get comfortable, so we can talk.”

  Following Sand into the depths of his home, Jensen’s eyes swept rapidly, surveying and appraising what he could see of the dwelling. As they passed through Sand’s tastefully decorated living room, Jensen noticed several framed photos on a wall above a small credenza upon which a pair of Japanese swords rested within a lacquered rack. One of the photos depicted a group of Asian men in traditional karate uniforms, and Sand stood out as the only non-Asian. One photo depicted a group of soldiers in military uniform. Sand was the only black man. Judging by how young Sand looked in the picture, the image was at least thirty years old. So Sand was ex-Army; he’d served in Japan or Okinawa, and practiced karate—or judo. The swords below the photos looked authentic, but he wasn’t an expert on Japanese antiques.

  They followed him through the home and reached a brightly lit and well-appointed kitchen. Motioning them to stools at a center island, Sand poured coffee. A tray of pastries beckoned.

  “This is awkward,” Sand said as he settled onto his stool, cradling his mug.

  “Awkward?” Jensen echoed. “How so?”

  Sand’s soft brown eyes settled on Jensen. A sad smile formed at the corners of his mouth, but he said nothing.

  “Okay,” Jensen shrugged with a sigh. “Awkward it is.”

  Sand nodded. “You flew in from Los Angeles?”

  “Yes,” Jensen said. “This morning.”

  “You met with Carter and Taylor?”

  “Taylor, yes, and an FBI man,” said Jensen. “Derek Sawyer.”

  Sand shook his head gently. “Bet that was fun.”

  “Not really,” Jensen said, holding eye contact.

  “Well.” Sand placed his palms on the granite before him. “Let me see if I can make this easier. First, I know what must be going through your minds. I’m a stranger; I’m the only person you know of who’s connected with your daughter’s disappearance, even though all I did was notify the police. Worse, I’m way too old to be dating your daughter’s best friend. I know it looks bad—hell, it would look bad even if they weren’t missing. Even worse under these circumstances. I’m not oblivious to the intrigue, for lack of a better word—of my relationship with Jackie. And my skin color doesn’t help.”

  “Mr. Sand, we don’t—”

  Sand raised his palms to hold Jensen off. “It is what it is. I know the question is hanging. Just exactly who am I?”

  Janet spoke. “Ordinarily none of our business.”

  “Ordinarily, no,” Sand said soothingly. “But it is your business now; you have a right to know.” He slid from his stool and walked over to the counter. He picked up two enlarged color photographs and handed them to Jensen.

  The first was of Christie and Jackie, in jeans and sweaters, standing beside a piano in what appeared to be an upscale bar or restaurant. The setting looked familiar to Jensen, but he couldn’t place it. The second photo was of Sand, seated at the piano, with Jackie and Christie behind him, beaming at the camera. Jackie’s hand rested affectionately on Sand’s shoulder and her other arm was wrapped around Christie.

  “Taken two months ago,” Sand narrated. “Jackie and I have something special—despite the differences in our age and race. Not just physical. Far more than just that. Jackie means more to me than anything in this world. She’s the center of my life. Every day we spend together is a gift.”

  Jensen could feel the sincerity of Sand’s words. He cleared his throat. “How well do you know our daughter?”

  “Christie’s an angel,” Sand replied
. “She’s been to my home many times. Jackie’s best friend. More like a sister. Do you know Jackie?”

  “We’ve met her, but we don’t know her well.”

  “I want you to know. The thing with Jackie. I tried to fight it, at least for a while,” Sand said softly. “But I lost that battle.”

  “Why did you try to fight it, Mr. Sand?” Janet asked, surprising her husband with the question.

  Sand looked at her and then shook his head. “Age gap, race gap. Appearances. My own better judgment. Don’t really know. At least not now. But at the start, well, the electricity between us was palpable. I told myself it was just physical attraction, but she just …” Sand shrugged. “You get the idea.”

  It wasn’t hard for Jensen to see how it could have unfolded.

  Sand’s athletic physique was obvious beneath his slacks and golf shirt. His square chin and angular features were rugged and masculine in a movie-star way. Jensen couldn’t help but picture Sand in a courtroom. He spoke in a smooth, deep baritone, and projected an image most jurors would love—as long as they harbored no racial baggage. He pictured Sand with Jackie, remembering her flirtatious nature and that she’d struck him as a walking collection of curves and ellipses that moved with a pleasing rhythm and an electric smile. She was delicate, like a flower, but full of life and mystery. She could be the yin to Sand’s yang, Jensen thought, cringing at how that would have sounded if he’d said it out loud. He rephrased his thoughts. The chemistry would be there. Easy to see how it could happen.

  Sand continued. “The race issue never meant anything. We always knew it could be an issue for other people, but we don’t care about that part. But the age difference? That’s a bigger issue.”

  “Mr. Sand,” Janet offered, “Christie and I talk.” She cast a sideways glance at Jensen. “Mother–daughter.”

  “Christie said the same,” said Sand. “And the rest is none of my business.”

  “She disapproves. And … she thinks it’s wonderful.”

 

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