Discovering Normal

by Cynthia Henry

  ***

  It felt like a page from one of Audrey’s What Is Wrong With This Picture? books. Beth was sitting on a private government jet heading for a mission to rescue her estranged husband from a bizarre cult with her former boss and the man who wanted to be her lover at her side while she leafed through a Good Housekeeping magazine.

  But she couldn’t focus on more than apricot chicken at the moment. Audrey had cried and clung to her when she’d told her that she wasn’t sure when she’d be back. She couldn’t think about the abandonment issues this may be causing--a four-year-old ripped from both of her parents and left with people she barely knew in just a day’s time.

  And Noah--so wise, so aware. He didn’t ask where she was going, though she sensed he knew something was wrong. She and Chris had talked only vaguely with their son about their past lives, but just a few months ago Beth had overheard Chris telling Noah more than she was comfortable with him knowing. It’d led to another argument, another slam of the door, another addition to their stupid little personal war.

  Noah lit up when he saw Beth standing at the end of the school sidewalk with the other mothers just as she’d always been back in Garrity. He gave her a quick hug and then seemed to remember that he was both ten and pissed at her. She told him over an ice cream cone that was all that she had time to share, that she’d be leaving and he’d have to help with Audrey. Noah lowered his head and didn’t say another word aside from a barked goodbye before her cab arrived.

  Beth flipped the page from apricot chicken to chocolate chip shortbread. She glanced at Deej who was dozing and George who was staring which she knew before she’d even looked up.

  “I’m not sure I’m comfortable with any of this,” he said when she looked his way.

  Beth lowered the magazine and rested her head against the seat. “What would you have me do, George? Nothing?”

  George took a swig of scotch and glanced out the window of the plane. “You must remember that the more time elapses, the chances of a positive outcome are diminished.”

  Beth rolled her head and closed her eyes. “I have to be refreshed, George and besides, they’re not even certain where Flora-Sky is operating yet. By the time they know for sure, I’ll be ready.”

  Beth opened her eyes when George began to speak. “He wouldn’t do this for you. Not anymore. He’s a ruthless bastard. He wouldn’t do it now if he knew that there wasn’t a chance he’d end up with you. He wouldn’t do it for Noah or Audrey. He’d only do it for himself.”

  Beth tilted her head and really looked at the handsome man who wasn’t as smart as she’d thought. “Yes he would, George.”

  George settled back against his own seat. “You’ve always given him too much credit. Always.”

  Sleep hit him quickly and Beth turned back to the rolling of the shortbread dough.

  Chapter 12

  Chris lay on a hard cot and took in everything he could fathom. The room was small, cold, dark, uncomfortable, smelled faintly of rubbing alcohol and apparently had been chosen because it was easily accessed from different ends of the building.

  His ribs hurt like hell and he’d coughed up blood right after he’d been hurled in here with a thud what he thought had been the day before. The only window was a cutout high in what had to be a fifteen foot ceiling so it was hard to determine if it was dawn, dusk or somewhere in between. He’d been fed only hard bread and greasy broth twice, but otherwise was left alone. At least the beatings seemed to be done for now.

  Sometimes he could hear conversation, though it was muffled and inaudible. So far it’d been impossible to determine who was speaking and what the hell their intentions were.

  Chris hoisted up, holding his gut as he limped to the door. He felt dirty and suddenly so very old. He backed up to the opposite side of the room from the window and tried desperately to peer through it. It was no use. Even at six foot two, he couldn’t see a damn thing.

  Was anyone looking for him? Did anyone have even the slightest idea that he was alive and alone in this world of stone and cold?

  But he was a savvy guy and he knew the chances weren’t good.

  Chris lowered to the mat on the floor and manually swung his legs around to recline. Pain blurred and after a while it was hard to be sure if it was really there at all. He closed his eyes and tried to think; tried to remember being a kid when the world had held promise, being a teenager when the world was his, being a young and cocky Bureau Agent when nothing could ever interfere with the high you got from being at the top of the game.

  Then he fell in love and became a husband, a father and finally insignificant.

  It was Beth who filled his mind as he tried to find sleep and oblivion--her hair, her laugh, the radiance of her smile. He remembered her voice, her touch, the glaze of her eyes when he was inside and they weren’t two people anymore but one.

  Sleep mercifully hovered and Chris was almost on the other side when the door slid open and a young guy no more than twenty-five stepped in with same thug from the plane in tow.

  Instinct forced Chris up though it hurt like hell.

  The young guy was small and even beaten and broken, Chris was pretty sure he could take him. The Hulk lurking in the back was another story.

  The big guy closed the door and then stood in front of it with arms crossed over his massive chest, but the young guy stepped closer. His clothes were strange--suede and leather with silky black sleeves and shoes that looked like bedroom slippers.

  “I trust you’re finding your accommodations suitable, Mr. Stoddard.”

  “What the fuck do you want with me?”

  And with that came a mighty punch to Chris’ right side.

  “This is Omish-Ogden and you’ve offended him because you’ve insulted me.”

  Chris squinted through the stars swimming around his head like a bad cartoon. “Who are you?”

  “I am The Most Masterful.”

  Chris tilted his head and then he could see--the same feminine features and crazed madness in his eyes. “You’re Harold Holden’s kid.”

  Another crushing blow, this time to the left.

  Chris straightened, spit and steeled himself to the punch when it returned to the vicinity of his jaw.

  “I would suggest you say no more, Mr. Stoddard, lest you choose to further inflict pain upon yourself.”

  “No self-inflicting about it,” Chris said with another spit.

  The big guy wound up and Chris steadied himself before he realized the little Holden had halted the thug. “Enough, Omish-Ogden. There will be time later.”

  And with that the guy folded his arms once again and stepped back to the door.

  Chris opened his mouth to speak, but Holden raised his palm. “I do not need to protect you, but it is not my wish to have you incapacitated at this time. Do not speak, simply listen.”

  Chris shut his mouth, looked at the big guy because he’d learned long ago to always know where the danger lurked, and then back to Holden Junior.

  “I have spoken with my father.”

  Chris squinted, shifted. He’d killed the father; watched him die, pictured it every night while he looked at Beth and the kids peaceful and asleep. Harold Holden had slipped away so much more easily than Chris had imagined. During all those months of waiting, he’d envisioned a Fatal Attraction moment where the bad guy would just keep popping back into life. But Holden took the bullet, clutched his chest and fell like any mere mortal would when faced with a state-of-the-art magnum. He didn’t squirm as they sometimes did. Didn’t make eye contact, didn’t mouth an apology to those he’d tortured and killed to feed his ego.

  Didn’t offer any penance for robbing Chris of the love of his life.

  He just fell and was dead and that was that.

  But the kid seemed to think the guy was on the phone or something.

  “Are you surprised, Mr. Stoddard? Did you think that your weapon of fire and your arrogance were enough to rob my father of mortal life?’

&nb
sp; “What the fuck is going on?”

  The guy moved from the door, but Holden halted him again. “It is all right, Omish-Ogden. Mr. Stoddard, you have been warned. You will not speak, you will not inquire. You will simply listen.”

  Chris’ eyes darted the room and then back to Holden.

  “You’ve lived a good life, yes?”

  Chris stared into the hollowness of the guy’s eyes.

  “Are you too arrogant to answer me, Mr. Stoddard?”

  “Oh, I’m on now?”

  Another blow--crushing, punishing--causing his head to swing from one side to the other.

  When Chris managed to focus, he could see Holden smirking. “I apologize, Mr. Stoddard. I’m a bit off my game, but I’m sure you’ll understand that I’m an ecstatic man. I’ve waited most of my life for this moment and my father is well pleased.”

  Holden walked to the corner and picked up Chris’ wallet that had been flung there by one of the guerillas who’d thrown him in here and stripped him of everything aside from his jeans. He flipped the trifolds and landed on Audrey’s pre-school picture. “Lovely child. She favors the Divine Farley-Fauna. But this child--”

  He paused at Noah’s little league shot.

  “This child seems more like his father. We boys always aspire to be our father’s sons do we not, Stoddard? This boy will know his share of sorrow.”

  Chris’ heart pounded in the painful cavern of his chest. He could kill the bastard with just his hands and his fury if he wasn’t broken and sad and confused. Instead he made an orchestrated lunge and kicked the wallet from the little wimp’s hands. The well-trained thug moved instantly, but Holden raised his palm and the guy froze.

  “Understandable, Omish-Ogden. Mr. Stoddard fancies himself a good father, though he must and will pay for forcing himself upon Farley-Fauna the Divine. In time though. In time.” Holden snatched the wallet from the floor and leafed to a photo of Beth on their wedding day. He studied it from several angles before he flipped the wallet closed and tucked it into a silky fold of his shirt. “I have it on good authority that Farley-Fauna is as radiant as ever.”

  Chris recognized a bait--a taunt--when he witnessed it. He stayed quiet and still.

  Holden joined his hands in front of him. “Pity that things progressed so far, Stoddard. Pity that you never realized your limitations. Farley-Fauna can never truly be your wife, which is exactly why your marriage is dead and gone. One as divine as she cannot live with someone such as yourself or your offspring.”

  Chris steadied his eyes, but couldn’t beat back the fury. “Beat me senseless, I don’t give a fuck, just leave my family alone. Kill me if you want--everyone I care about thinks I’m already dead--but I’m warning you, leave my family alone.”

  The Hulk grabbed him then, squeezed Chris’ already pulverized side and pounded.

  “I warned you not to speak,” Chris heard as the guy continued the beating. “Stop now, Omish-Ogden,” he said then. “I want Mr. Stoddard to hear, to understand.”

  The guy pulled a cease-fire and hoisted Chris by his arms so he’d be sure to see Holden’s smiling, leering feminine face.

  “I don’t want you dead, Mr. Stoddard. Not yet. Soon, but not yet. I am curious though as to what you believe you can accomplish while in these walls of my sanctuary? What power you believe you have means nothing to us. Aside from being the most hated man alive, you mean nothing to us. What retribution can you offer if I do decide to approach your family? None at all.” He stepped so close; Chris could feel his mint-smelling breath against his bloody cheek. “Farley-Fauna belongs here. Flora-Sky cannot thrive without her.” He stepped back and waved his hand. “Release him to his own sorrow, Omish-Ogden.”

  The guy let Chris fall, kicked him for good measure and Holden emitted a sinister laugh. “Until next time, Mr. Stoddard.”

  And they left him alone with blood, sweat and tears.

  Chapter 13

  Six Weeks Later

  Beth pulled her thick cardigan close to her chin and shivered at the driving rain. Even beneath the portico, the autumn rain bounced off of the shore rocks below and sprayed her face and hands. She was somewhere near Amsterdam and she was growing impatient.

  They’d been held up here for weeks, she and Deej and George along with a few other mysterious trainers who’d drifted in and out with frequency. In four weeks she’d received a crash course in everything from Tai Kwon Do to marksmanship.

  Now the refresher studies were complete, her kick-spins were ferocious once again and her aim had been de-rusted, resulting in perfect crack shots. She’d been briefed, debriefed and subjected to psychological testing and lessons in the stilted dialogue favored by the cult Flora-Sky.

  And there was nothing left to do but wait.

  She turned when the sliding glass door slid open and George stepped outside. He looked as casual as he could manage with his placard collar shirt unbuttoned at the very top. “Chilly night.” He moved to her side and glanced down to the crashing surf.

  “It is.”

  George slid an arm around Beth’s shoulders and tipped her head to lean against his. “Are you holding up?”

  Beth nodded and tugged her sweater tighter to her chin. “I miss my kids. I’m--” her voice trailed off into the wet evening.

  “Worried about Chris?”

  Beth nodded against George’s shoulder. “I was married to him for a long time.”

  George ran his hand over her arm in quick succession to ward off her chill. “If anyone can hold his own, it’s Chris.”

  “Do you think he’s alive?”

  “I do.”

  Beth lifted her head and looked at him. He’d been so patient, so understanding though she knew he really didn’t want to be at all. It had to be hard for him to live here in this house with her--their rooms were just doors apart--but Beth locked hers every night because she couldn’t deal with it right now, couldn’t deal with what he might want and she was unable to offer at this crazy and confusing time. But still, George remained here even when Deej had told him it wasn’t necessary for him to be present for Beth’s training. He’d call if and when they discovered Chris’ location and whether or not he was even alive. But George stubbornly stayed. He watched Beth train, offered suggestions and then did it all again the following day.

  Beth positioned his jaw with her fingers and covered his mouth with a kiss. It wasn’t their first, but it was the first she’d initiated and he seemed surprised.

  George’s grip tightened on Beth’s arm as his jaw worked to spread hers. Their tongues danced and stopped only when the door slid open and Deej cleared his throat. Beth pulled away, but it wasn’t an effort. It wasn’t hard at all to stop kissing George when up to the very last time it’d always been a Herculean effort to stop kissing Chris.

  “Excuse me,” Deej said as Beth moved from George and gathered her sweater once again. “I apologize, but we may have something.”

  Beth felt the first ray of hope in weeks flutter by. “What?”

  “We’ve been in contact with a unit housed in Sweden.”

  “Sweden?” Beth asked, though she knew if she were just patient he’d explain all that he could.

  “Yeah, Sweden. There’s a possibility that there’s some activity in an area near Lithuania.”

  Beth grabbed Deej’s thick arm. “I thought you had reason to believe that Flora-Sky was setting up shop in the Netherlands?”

  Deej patted her hand. “Bethie, try and let the facts override the emotions. Holden wants to throw us just enough to keep us guessing. He ensured that the trail would lead here--close, but not too close--to throw us off, slow us down. We’re not certain, but this looks to be the most promising lead we’ve found. We’re checking it out.”

  “Profilers?” Beth asked, wishing she were one of the ones that’d been asked, wishing she could do something more than train and wonder; something to move this along instead of being a victim to the waiting.

  “Profilers, yes. A Special R
esponse team is on it as well. We’re doing all we can, Bethie. Hopefully we’ll know soon. Here.” Deej extended a pack of unfiltered Camels. “Contra ban.”

  Beth took one and leaned in for the light. She coughed-- a far cry from her menthol Kools--but she had to remember that she was now just one of the guys and not the long suffering wife of the alleged victim.

  ***

  Chris arched his back and did his damnedest to pull the heavy shackle that weighted his wrist from the iron pole where it was attached.

  No luck.

  He’d lost track of time, of days, of space. When he managed to concentrate, he believed it’d been less than months, but definitely more than days. His ribs had healed, but new and fresh beatings occurred with frequency. They were his only spatial reminder--300 drips of the rusty sink later, his putrid broth and stale bread arrived.

  There were no showers, no shaves--he now had what was close to a full beard and the same pair of jeans he’d arrived in, though they’d grown loose at his waist. His shirt had been long stripped away and it was so much colder now in this dungeon room. A wicked cough had set in a few days ago, leaving him to try and steady his side as he heaved.

  It was hell, torture, the worst of the worst.

  And those were the good days.

  The bad days were the ones when sleep evaded him and he remembered. He remembered his kids, his wife, his house, his farm…his life. Tears started to form a few times, but he thwarted them. He’d be damned if he’d let the psychotic ass have the satisfaction.

  They were fucking with his mind and Chris damn well knew it. So far he’d managed to fuck right back.

  They told him that Beth knew where he was and just didn’t care. He said, ‘So what?’ and steeled himself to the blow.

  They tried to make him think he’d killed children and old people and puppies and kittens of the children and old people. He said, ‘Screw you,’ and they pounded more.

  They said his capture had triggered cataclysmic horrors because he controlled those things being the most evil of all. He spit, they smacked and disappeared until the next time.