by Ethan Cross
She awoke to Gladstone parting her white curtain and saying, “No rest for the wicked, Corin. Let’s go for a roll. And I apologize if I made that sound like a request.”
Fearing the punishment non-compliance would bring, she struggled her way over to the edge of the bed and lifted herself into her wheelchair. Gladstone occupied his own chair, but his was much more sophisticated than her own. She examined his chair for the first real time, admiring its modern design and utilitarian elegance.
As she fell into her chair, Corin closed her eyes and said a quick prayer to a God whom she didn’t really know. Please give me the strength to kill this man.
“Roll with me, my dear,” the handsome young doctor said as he used his tightly muscled arms to roll away from her silk cell.
She had little choice but to follow, but she struggled to keep pace with Gladstone, who seemed to consider wheelchair ballet an Olympic event. She wondered why he was keeping up the ruse. He obviously didn’t require the chair, unless he had some condition where he couldn’t stand for long periods of time. But that didn’t seem to make sense. She wasn’t sure what to think. She wasn’t sure what was real anymore. From time to time, the fact that she was in hell still crept into her mind.
Gladstone was halfway across the ballroom before he realized that she had fallen behind. Spinning around on a dime, he smiled and said, “What’s wrong, Corin? Do you not have the strength to keep up? If so, I would like to remind you that only the strong survive.”
Unable to hold her hate inside, she snapped back, “Is that the way it’s going to be in your new society? The strong preying on the weak, pushing them down to raise themselves up. Sounds like the same old world to me, just a different tyrant.”
As he waited for her to catch up, he said, “I think if you look at all of these so-called tyrants throughout the ages, you’ll find healthy doses of insecurity, mania, religiosity, and, most of all, selfish motivations.”
“And your motives aren’t selfish?”
“The only way for a human life to have meaning is to have a positive influence upon your society and your species as a whole. My own plans and selfish motives are always secondary to my primary goal.”
“I still don’t see how one group of kidnapped women forced to carry your children has a positive influence on either our species or our culture.”
“As I said previously, Miss Campbell, this compound and your sisters are merely the tip of my iceberg.”
Gladstone led her through the condemned resort to an elevator she had spotted earlier. The thought had crossed her mind to slip inside and see if any of the buttons were labeled “Parking Garage.” They took the elevator to the top floor. Gladstone said, “This used to be the resort’s presidential suite, but I found it lacking. So I had it retrofitted to serve as a true presidential suite.”
“Is that what you’re going to call yourself? President Gladstone? Or maybe President Doctor Derrick?”
“I’ve actually given that quite a bit of thought, and I haven’t decided yet. King Gladstone, perhaps. Maybe Emperor Gladstone. Once we get to the island, I suppose we could take a vote.”
“’Emperor’ doesn’t really imply democracy.”
“I sometimes like to re-use antiquated terminology, in order to help us remember the past. Those who forget the past are doomed to repeat it. And human history is certainly full of mistakes to learn from. But words like Emperor and Democracy will take on a new meaning. I suppose the most accurate term would be Progenitor.”
As the elevator doors parted to reveal the presidential suite, Corin stared at the room beyond and said, “Is this your room or a seafood restaurant?”
Derrick laughed. “I find the underwater motif to be quite soothing.”
The presidential suite looked as if it had been designed by Captain Nemo. It was all shades of blue and flowing lines. The ceiling was recessed and shimmering lights shined across it, creating the impression that it was made of water. A massive fish tank rested in the center of the room and bustled with all manner of tropical fish. The massive space contained two sitting areas and was configured as a kitchen and dining room, complete with an ornate crystal chandelier. It even smelled like an ocean breeze within Derrick’s personal domain.
“I’ve always loved the ocean,” he said. “I used to be quite the surfer, before my accident. This is, of course, a central gathering area. My bedroom is to the left, and Sonnequa’s room is on the right. I consider that the First Lady’s suite. But that is an appointed position that is always in flux, Corin. I could easily see you as my first lady instead of Sonnequa. But one step at a time. Before we get into that, I’d like to show you something very important in my bedroom.”
86
Marcus felt dead tired, exhausted enough that a few moments rest was a real possibility. He had a little over an hour before they were to be picked up by Detective Ferrera, and he planned to squeeze out every second of sleep he could. As he stumbled into the hotel room—which he shared with Maggie—and pulled off the suit that had been strangling him all morning, he didn’t even bother to flip on the lights.
The meeting with Oban certainly hadn’t gone as expected, but the result was more or less what Marcus had hoped. Eddie had been his usual blustering self, but Marcus had to admit that his old friend had probably saved their lives and unlocked a door that they could have never opened on their own. In fact, Oban Nassar had graciously invited them to a private viewing of the Diamond Room, a break which could make all the difference between finding the missing women and Agent Fuller dead or alive.
It wasn’t until he reached the bed that he noticed something about the space was off.
The bed had been made hotel-room style—two standard pillows and sheets beneath a floral bedspread. The problem was that Maggie never allowed the room to be attended by the maids or for the beds to be made. The first thing she had done upon their arrival, as was the case in every hotel room they stayed in, was to strip the sheets and bedspread and disinfect the room with a special concoction of her own that was supposed to kill 99.9% of bacteria as well as the infamous bed bugs that were making a comeback in the US in recent years. Maggie had been growing increasingly concerned about the tiny invaders and was constantly sending him articles on the subject.
After disinfection, Maggie would cover the bed with a set of sheets and blankets that had been sterilized and coated with anti-bedbug juices at home.
But now, the hotel sheets and bedspread had been draped over the mattress. As he stared at the outline of the floral shapes in the nearly dark room, he thought of the woodgrain of his aunt’s coffin on the day he had placed her body to rest.
He flipped on the lights and also found Maggie’s suitcase missing. His heart seemed to stop beating at the strange finality of the moment. He remembered the same heartbreak upon losing his aunt, the woman who had raised him and loved him like her own.
Scolding himself for such thoughts, he rationalized that there must be a reasonable explanation. He asked himself why his thoughts first turned to Maggie leaving him. Was it guilt? A sense that her leaving would be what he deserved?
Checking his sidearm—as he almost compulsively did at the smallest sign of danger—Marcus moved to the hallway and then over to Dylan’s room. He gave the proper knock code, and a few seconds later, Agent Lee—the beautiful young black woman with the short-cropped curly hair—opened the door. She must have seen something strange in his eyes because she immediately said, “What’s wrong?”
“Have you seen Agent Carlisle today?”
“Yeah, she spent some time with Dylan and then left. She told me to let you know that she emailed and explained why she had to rush off.”
He asked, “Why wouldn’t she have just texted me?”
Agent Lee looked almost as tired as he felt. She said, “You ask me a lot of questions that I couldn’t possibly answer.”
“Sorry, I’m talking to myself here. Don’t worry about it. I’ll check my email. Is Dylan doing o
kay?”
“Last I saw, a Lego pirate ship was battling a Lego Star Destroyer.”
With a weak smile, he said, “Thanks. I really appreciate your help.”
“Show me your appreciation by bringing Jerrell home. Find him, Agent Williams. Please.”
Marcus had contemplated conversations like this for hours upon hours. As a homicide detective and then a federal agent, he had made a lot of promises he couldn’t keep while staring into the eyes of a victim’s family. After all that analysis, he had yet to find a suitable response that was able to comfort the bereaved and yet properly convey the realities of the situation.
He said, “We’re closing in.”
87
From: [email protected]
To: “Marcus”
X-Mailer: WolfMail 7.8.0.1
Subject: READ ME …
Marcus,
I know you’ll blame yourself for this, but it’s not your fault. Your tendencies to push people away haven’t helped, but at the core, this is about my brother. I don’t feel that I’ve done enough to find him, to learn the truth. I once believed that joining the SO would help me find the man who took him, but in reality, being part of this team has only drawn me farther from where I need to be. I have to catch the person or persons who did this, no matter what it takes, no matter how long it takes. So you can consider this my resignation. In regard to me and you, I love you, and I always will. But I don’t expect you to wait for me.
PS - Tell Ackerman that I hope he endures an extremely painful death in the very near future ;-)
Yours Always,
Maggie
88
Ackerman had been immediately impressed by the roominess of the hotel’s closets. Most establishments didn’t provide the space necessary for proper sleep, and so he would curl up in a corner or beside one of the beds. But whenever reasonable, he preferred to slumber in the confines of a nice closet. The benefits included a greater sense of comfort and rest accompanied by various tactical advantages. Most interlopers looked to the beds and bathrooms. The closet was a secondary concern during a surprise attack, which gave him ample opportunity to plan his counteroffensive.
Now, however, he was not alone in the closet and was consequently unable to properly enjoy the spaciousness. The vermin had insisted on joining him inside his small sanctuary, and the dog now lay curled against his midsection.
Ackerman wanted to roll over, but he didn’t move for fear of waking the furry beast, which could result in more licking and tail wagging. He hated to admit that his tolerance of the thing was growing. He still considered the canine to be a tumor, but at least a benign one—a remora to his great white shark.
The little dog popped to attention a full second before Ackerman heard the sound of breaking glass.
Sliding open the closet door, he crawled across the beige carpet and listened. Then, still staying low and out of the line of fire, he rolled toward the source of the crash: his brother’s room.
He and Marcus shared an adjoining door, but it was currently locked. Ackerman was considering whether he should kick it in or merely knock when Emily burst into his room with her weapon drawn and ready. She scanned the whole room before making eye contact with Ackerman. He pointed toward the room allocated to Marcus and Maggie.
Emily stomped forward and propelled the door inward with an impressive spin-kick.
Following her inside, Ackerman saw Marcus in the bathroom, sitting atop the toilet with blood gushing down his face and dripping from his right fist. Resisting the urge to check the closet first—there were not many with thought patterns similar to his own—he accompanied Emily as she rushed to his brother’s side.
Marcus said, “I’m fine. It’s just a little cut. Looks worse than it is.”
“What happened?” Emily asked.
The bathroom mirror had been shattered and bloody pieces filled the sink. By the patterns of the breakage to the glass, Ackerman could see that at least one of the impacts had been caused by Marcus’s forehead. He said, “Brother, we need to know whether or not you’ve been attacked.”
“I tripped. Just let me wash off the blood and—”
“Quiet,” Emily snapped. Then, as she tended to Marcus’s wounds despite his objections, she said, “What really happened?”
His brother’s gaze was locked on the brown tile floor. Ackerman noticed the slight odor of disinfectant and insect repellant which he had come to warmly associate with his little sister. He asked, “Where’s Maggie?”
After a moment, Marcus reluctantly offered, “She’s gone. The email is still up on my computer screen. You might as well all see it.”
Returning to the bedroom, Ackerman located the MacBook and read Maggie’s message. Most of what she said he had seen coming for some time now. But he hadn’t expected the kind sentiment of the postscript.
… PS - Tell Ackerman that I hope he endures an extremely painful death in the very near future ;-) …
A moment later, Emily joined him and read the message. Ackerman said, “Wasn’t that sweet at the end. I must really be making an impact on her.”
“It doesn’t sound very sweet. She hopes you die painfully.”
“Exactly. Death would be a grand adventure. To live is Christ and to die is gain, as written by … I can’t recall if it was John or Paul … No matter … As you’ve said, pain is my drug of choice. Therefore, a painful death would be a most satisfying beginning to my afterlife.”
Emily narrowed her gaze but said, “It’s sad that the first part of that note you comment on is about yourself. Maggie could be in serious danger. Not to mention that she’s suffering enough emotionally to abandon us during an active investigation.”
“That’s the thing about warriors and hunters, my dear. When aren’t we warring and hunting in one way or another? It’s hard to focus on anything else when you’re constantly faced with situations of life and death. Maggie merely needs to do some soul searching. It’s really no surprise. I saw this coming all the way back in Chicago, and I assumed you had as well.”
Marcus—a towel wrapped around his head like a red-and-white turban—joined them at the hotel room’s desk and slammed the lid of his laptop. “Everybody out. I need to lie down before we meet with Detective Ferrera and their source.”
“You’re not lying down after suffering a head trauma,” Emily said. “You need a hospital.”
“For what?”
“You need stitches.”
“I’m fine.”
Ackerman said, “I can stitch him up. I’ve performed the procedure many times. On both the living and the deceased.”
Marcus nodded. “Well. There you go. No hospital.”
Emily’s ability to endure never ceased to amaze Ackerman. She said, “Fine. Enjoy that Frankenstein scar. But while he’s sewing you up, I need to know what really happened in there? When it comes to the team’s mental and physical safety, I’m the boss, remember?”
Ackerman interjected, “Marcus said that he’s fine. Besides, you know why he did it. It was just yesterday morning I was informing you of the article I read on the relationship between head-banging and a sense of relief for those with my brother’s particular neurodiversity.”
“That’s enough, Frank.”
“No, it’s not. I’ve held my tongue on this subject long enough. Head-banging is a survival strategy used to deal with the devastating amount of sensory and emotional input attacking my brother on a daily basis. Head-banging is a pain that he can control. The brain of an individual with ASD shows higher brain activity, even while at rest. It’s no wonder Marcus can’t sleep. And the more emotional stress and sensory overloads he suffers, the more he can’t sleep. With lack of rest comes the breakdown of his filtering and coping mechanisms. It’s a vicious cycle. You want to discuss the mental and physical safety of this team. I believe that keeping the truth from my brother is endangering every one of us on both counts.”
Emily wouldn’t
meet his gaze, but Marcus said, “What the hell is he talking about? I’m really not in the mood for this, and I tuned about three quarters of that nonsense out, but from what I did hear, you’re both keeping something from me. From now on, we all need to be more open with each other. If I had been more open with Maggie, well … One of you is going to tell me what’s going on.”
Sensing that this was Emily’s moment of truth, Ackerman held his tongue. After a deep breath and a long silence, she said, “Marcus, I wanted to wait to share this with you until a more opportune and private moment, but I’ve diagnosed Dylan with Autism Spectrum Disorder. And although this is far from confirmed, there is a genetic component to ASD. You certainly display some of the outward signs, but it’s impossible for me to give a diagnosis with any certainty without—”
Marcus interrupted, “I’ve heard enough. There’s not a damn thing wrong with me or my son. Everyone out. Now.”
“But your stitches?”
“I’ll do it my damn self! I’ve survived this long without anyone’s help. I think I can make a go of it a bit longer. I’ll see you both in the lobby in one hour. Now, get out.”
89
Corin now suspected that she had been given more than just a mild sedative. The world had been spinning from the moment she rolled off the elevator. Or perhaps the underwater motif had simply hypnotized her into a state of utter disorientation. Either way, she felt at first as if she was aboard a submarine, and then as if the room was full of water and she was floating out of her chair.
The good news was that she could no longer feel her ruined legs.
Derrick, his voice taking on a dream-like reverberation, said, “It’s this way. Don’t doddle. What are you waiting for?”
She tried to answer, but her mouth seemed unable to form the proper shapes.
Apparently seeing the signs of her intoxication, Gladstone finally said, “Oh, dear. It seems that Sonnequa may have given you an excessive dose.”