that stop him.
“Failure is not an option,” he said.
It was his favorite line from his favorite movie. The Apollo 13
astronauts had found a way to surmount what must have seemed
like the insurmountable, and so would he.
Jake turned his head and looked toward the nearby stand of
trees. He thought about a piece of advice Deke had given him. “You
need to tell your story to the jury in a way that resonates with them.
They need to know why you’re there, and why they’re there.” Jake thought about his story, and then he began to talk to the
trees, recognizing that a jury would never actually hear the words
he spoke. But today he would speak the words that came from his
heart even if it was just a conversation with a grove.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” he said, “my name is Jake
Rutledge. My twin brother, Blake, died of an opiate overdose. That’s
why I’m here. Since his passing, I have tried to make sense of why
Jake died. Finding those answers has not been easy. But the truth is
that Blake did not have to die, just as so many thousands of other
individuals didn’t have to die. As this trial progresses, you will hear
about my long journey to discovery. For now, though, I just want to
tell you a little bit about my brother. Blake was my best friend in the
world, and I guarantee that you would have liked him.” Jake’s voice cracked, but he didn’t stop talking. And it seemed to
him that the trees leaned a little closer to hear what he had to say.
24
MR. SANDMAN
Willpower, and a sharp rock, kept Jake awake, but as the night grew later, it became increasingly more difficult to stay alert. Not being able to move much made his task harder. In the event he was being monitored with an infrared camera, he didn’t want his captors to know what he was up to. Even so, he was forced to jab the sharp rock into his flesh over and over again so as to not nod off. As the night wore on, he wondered if his unknown jailers were actually planning on visiting him. Maybe they no longer had any use for him. Maybe they would just let him starve to death.
Jake played mental games to try and occupy himself. He came up with his fifty greatest basketball and baseball players of all time, followed up by his version of the ten greatest quarterbacks. Most of the all-time greats he knew only through old game footage, but he did his best to be fair.
Gauging the time was difficult, but Jake figured it was around midnight when he heard what he believed to be an engine. The sound came closer but then seemed to fade away again. Still, if he was right about having heard the engine, there had to be a road not too far away. And maybe, just maybe, someone was coming to see him.
195 Jake waited expectantly. As the minutes passed, he listened closely for sounds in the night and was surprised by the difficulty of the task. He’d become accustomed to the noises of the wind and the rubbing trees and the rustling leaves. But they were deafening, masking any sounds that might be related to human activities.
Keeping completely still, not even moving his head, Jake stared through the opening in the fabric that camouflaged his cage. Even though his heart was pounding, he took shallow breaths to keep his chest from rising and falling. He knew anyone approaching him would have to go through the woods. Maybe there was a path among the trees, or a game trail. Minutes passed. Jake had almost given up hope when he spotted a flashlight moving amid the foliage. The swaying branches seemed to cast the light about so that it looked like a dancing will-o’-the-wisp.
The light went out as whoever was approaching drew near. His visitor didn’t advance undetected, however; dry leaves crackled, and twigs snapped.
Jake continued to play possum. If his jailer thought he was asleep, he might not take his usual precautions. Jake pretended to be deep in dreamland, but even his snoring sounds weren’t enough to lull the other man into complacency.
With one eye cracked open, Jake tried to see what his captor was doing. He could tell from the person’s size and shape that it was a man. He slung what looked to be a large backpack from his shoulder and began unzipping its compartments. The aroma of chicken made Jake salivate. And there were potatoes as well, his nose told him. He hoped his stomach wouldn’t start growling and give him away.
Through slitted eyes, he watched, hoping that his visitor would pull back the opening in the fabric and then unlock the cage, giving Jake the opportunity to charge. Unfortunately, that didn’t happen. Keeping his distance from the cage, the man unscrewed what looked to be a pole, or maybe a telescoping fishing rod. The pole extended out, doubling in length, and then the man began screwing something onto its end.
There was enough moonlight for Jake to see the syringe being affixed to the end of the pole. It was a device typically used on bulls or unruly cattle, and Jake realized it must have already been used on him at least twice.
As the man lifted up the fabric, Jake changed the pattern of his breathing and made waking noises. Then he raised his head and looked toward where his visitor was standing.
“What . . . what?” Jake pretended surprise. He shook his head violently, almost as if trying to escape from the grip of a nightmare. Then he sat up and said, “Who are you? And what do you want?”
The man didn’t answer at first. He looked to be about Jake’s age, with a long brown mustache. Even though it was night, he was wearing a worn baseball cap. Black lettering stood out on a yellow rectangle, a capital A atop a T. Jake had seen the letters before: they signified the Appalachian Trail.
“What the hell is going on here?” Jake demanded.
“This ain’t good, Jesus,” screeched the man. “Not good at all, Lord.” His Appalachian twang bespoke the mountains and cloistered hollows.
“Don’t just stand there,” said Jake. “Get me the hell out of this cage.” He pretended not to notice the man’s inaction. “I’ve been locked up for a week,” he said, “or maybe longer. I don’t know for sure.”
“Y’all be still,” the man whispered. “What if they watchin’ us now? You better pray that ain’t so.”
He turned around as if afraid, peering at the tree where Jake had suspected a camera was positioned.
“But they partyin’ now,” Screech said, “so we’s probably safe. You only alive cuz of me, you know. And Jesus. Can’t forget Jesus. His goodness wash away my sins. You’d’ve been kilt, but I told them, ‘Thou shall not kill.’ And I reminded them that you be good with the solution with a little time. They was okay with givin’ it a go. Time and the low toss, that’s all he needs, I tell ’em. Course it wouldn’t hurt to have Jesus as well.”
Even though Jake had been born and bred in West Virginia, the hillbilly’s accent was still hard for him to interpret, so he tried a different tack.
“You brought me lettuce?” he asked.
Screech looked confused. “I got you food and drink. And I gotcha solution. I knew you’d be hawngree. Seven percent, some calls it. I say it wun-hunderd percent. You take it, you all in, right?”
Jake wondered if it was his tiredness that made it difficult to follow Screech. “Why am I being held captive?” he asked.
“Don’t know your particulars. Make it right with Jesus. That’s my advice. We was told to make you disappear for a while. There was some talk about those two words. What is a while? That there is why you alive. Course some think we already past a while—’specially since those that told us to putcha away a while haven’t been calling to see how you doin’. To some, that’s a sign. If they don’t care, we don’t care. It’s almost like you already disappeared permanent. But I say for now, for a while, we let you be Sleeping Beauty.”
“Sleeping Beauty?” said Jake. “What do you mean?”
“You eat the apple and you sleep, right? You only supposed to wake for Prince Charming. You not supposed to get up
from that sleep. You not supposed to talk to no one. It’s lucky you boring. Watchin’ you is like watchin’ paint dry. But anyone see you now, they might say ya gotta be kilt. Dontcha make that mistake again with no one else. I’m okay, though, cuz you already with the solution. Soon, maybe already, you’re not agin us. You with us with the low toss. Life is mighty fine, is it not? I can see it in you, cuz I stopped by to see what condition your condition is in. You already got the thirst, dontcha? Only one thing for the thirst, and that’s all the something you need. That and Jesus. Can’t forget Jesus.”
It was surreal, thought Jake. This man with the screechy voice was jumping from threats to old music lyrics to strange and untethered observations. In the space of a few seconds, he had gone from euphoria to paranoia.
“If you let me out,” said Jake, “I’ll make sure you get a large reward. Besides, you don’t want to keep me penned up. Kidnapping is a capital crime.”
“You hear one word I say? I got my reward on earth. And you getting yours. And one day with Jesus, I get my reward in heaven. I go from one club to another. If you lucky, you do the same. When you one of us, you one of us. But that take a while. In a month or so, there’s only one way to go. Until then, if you want to stay aboveground, you stay put.”
“What do you want from me?” asked Jake.
“Only one thing: turn around and drop your drawers.”
“The hell I will!” said Jake. “I’m not going to let myself be speared.”
“Ain’t no spear,” said Screech. “It’s your salvation. I calls it the Sandman. You work a cattle ranch in Romney, like I done, the Sandman becomes your best friend around livestock with bad attitude. I don’t tolerate no bad attitude.”
“Stick your Sandman up your ass,” said Jake.
“Suit yo’ self. Between me and Jesus, he knows I tried. You dyin’ means I don’t got to worry about no more midnight runs.”
Screech began filling his backpack. The man’s movements made Jake’s throat tighten. He tried to tamp down his panic but couldn’t. “Don’t,” he said.
Screech nodded. “I can see you scared. Nothing scarier than the end of good vibrations. Earthly salvation lots better than ashes and dust.”
“I’ll do whatever you say,” Jake said, “but I’m not keen on shots. How about I put my arms through the bars and face away from you? You won’t need to give me a shot that way.”
“This ain’t no negotiation. You decidin’ on life or death. What’s your choice?”
Jake took a deep breath. If he hoped to fight another day, there was nothing he could do but capitulate. He turned his back on Screech, loosened his belt, and then lowered his pants.
“Won’t hurt much,” Screech promised. “I know just how and where to do the shooting. The Sandman makes it easy.”
Screech stuck the syringe pole through an opening of the cage and positioned it near the fatty area of Jake’s hip. As promised, the injection was relatively painless. The hillbilly injected him with a push of his thumb, then withdrew the syringe.
“Next time I say grace first,” promised Screech. “Give thanks before the meal.”
After a few moments, Jake began to feel warm and a little bit woozy.
“When you sees me next,” said Screech, “I betcha you welcome me with open arms. You be happy to see me, that I know. Patience might be a virtue, but like the song says, let’s get that party started. Hell, you probably have your drawers off just waiting for Mr. Sandman.”
“Mr. Sandman, bring me a dream,” sang Jake, and then started laughing. It shouldn’t have been funny, but it was. “Bung, bung, bung, bung,” he continued, offering up the song’s refrain.
“That’s right,” said Screech, laughing along with him.
Jake sang another verse. “Sandman, I’m so alone, don’t have nobody to call my own.”
“No more walking alone,” said Screech.
But he wasn’t alone, thought Jake. He had Anna. How had he forgotten about her? Jake conjured up her image and tried to hold on to it, but it wasn’t long before she was lost behind a veil of sand.
26
AN INTERRUPTED VIGIL
Three weeks after Jake’s disappearance, the Friends of Jake organized a candlelight vigil at the West Virginia capital of Charleston. The purpose of the event was to keep the citizenry of West Virginia thinking about Jake. As it turned out, the mystery of Jake’s disappearance was the lead story for the night, but not for the reasons the Friends of Jake had intended.
The crowd gathered for the vigil a little before dusk—and more important for their purposes, before the start of the five o’clock news. It was a good turnout, especially for someone who’d been missing for as long as Jake had been. Participants were given unlit candles and Jake’s picture. The plan was for the candlelit walk to take place after music and speeches.
The event opened with a local band playing John Denver’s “Take Me Home, Country Roads.” Just about everyone in the crowd knew the lyrics, and when the more than hundred voices sang the song’s refrain, it was clearly heartfelt, for they were singing not only for their beloved West Virginia, but also the missing Jake Rutledge.
The poignant moment normally would have been a perfect media lead-in to a story about the mysterious disappearance of attorney Jake
202 Rutledge, a West Virginia native son, but in the midst of the singing, Deke noticed that none of the cameras were filming live shots. He turned his head to Paul and whispered, “Something’s wrong.” Paul did his best to keep up the pretense of singing. “What?”
he said.
“I’m going to find out,” said Deke, and made his escape still
singing along with the others: “‘I should have been home yesterday,
yesterday.’”
The media was situated on the outskirts of the crowd. Deke
found a platinum-blonde reporter carefully scrutinizing her makeup
in a compact mirror while touching up her ruby-red lipstick. “Excuse me,” he said.
Instead of lowering the mirror, she merely changed its angle so
that she was looking at Deke.
“We were told that there would be live coverage of our event,” he
said. “From what I can see, that’s not happening.”
“We were preempted,” the reporter said, turning the mirror back on
herself. She smacked her lips together to blot the newly applied lipstick. “What preempted us?”
The reporter finally turned Deke’s way, and he noticed a change
coming over her. Suddenly she was smiling and accommodating.
Apparently, she had recognized him and was probably angling for
an interview. Deke played her game and smiled back. They had to
keep Jake’s name out there, even if most people seemed to believe he
was already dead. Deke couldn’t, or wouldn’t, accept that. “I’m Katie King,” she said, extending a hand.
He could tell she was struggling to remember his name.
Deketomis, he knew, was a mouthful. “Nick Deketomis,” he said. “The famous lawyer,” she said.
Deke pretended to be flattered. Because he was usually in a
David-versus-Goliath position, it was always important to curry favor with the media, especially when his opponents had the money
to buy advertisements. And often to buy people.
“It’s so nice to meet you, Ms. King,” Deke added.
“The pleasure is mine,” she said, batting her eyelashes. Holding his smile, Deke said, “I’m wondering if you can tell me,
Ms. King, why this story was preempted.”
“The news director in our studio made the decision to go with
another live shot,” she said.
“Do you know what that other story is?”
“All I know is some sheriff scheduled a press conference that had
to do with your missing friend,” Katie said. “The news director said
the cop’s
statement would make for better TV than everyone singing
‘Kumbaya.’”
Too late, she realized how that sounded. “Not that singing is a
bad thing . . .”
Deke wasn’t interested in her apology. He wanted to know what
the police had to say about his friend. “Is there some breaking news
about Jake?”
“That’s what I understand,” she said, “but I don’t know the
particulars.”
“Who would know?”
“I’m sure Carl does.” Katie looked around and then pointed out
a thirtysomething man with a headset who was smoking a cigarette. “Carl is our field producer,” she said.
“Excuse me,” said Deke, taking his leave of Katie.
“I’m told we’ll still be doing a spot here,” she called to his retreating back. “Are you available to be interviewed in about ten minutes?” Deke offered up a noncommittal backward wave. He was trying
not to show the alarm he felt. A deputy holding a news conference
about Jake was worrisome. Three weeks was a long time to be missing, although Team Jake had done their best to remain upbeat. The field producer was taking a last puff on his cigarette as Deke
approached him. He dropped the butt, grinding it into the asphalt. “Carl?” Deke asked, extending his hand.
The producer also recognized Deke. That wasn’t surprising,
given all the public pleas for help Deke had been making. “Mr.
Deketomis,” Carl said, shaking the offered hand.
“I was just talking with Katie,” Deke said, “and she tells me that
our live spot got bumped because of a law enforcement announcement regarding Jake.”
“Afraid so. The studio decided on the other live spot. But that
doesn’t mean we won’t still be doing something here. In fact—” Deke interrupted him. “What I need to know is what the deputy
had to say about Jake.”
Carl shrugged. “I couldn’t tell you. I haven’t been listening
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