by J. M. LeDuc
Brent was about to ring the doorbell when he noticed the door was slightly ajar. On closer inspection, it looked as though someone had busted through the dead bolt. Oh no, he thought. What the hell is going on? God, I hope she’s okay.
Slowly, he pushed the door open and called out, “Mrs. Conklin?” Brent cautiously entered the outer foyer and crept up the first two steps listening for a response. Not hearing anything, his heartbeat began to quicken. “Lucille, can you hear me?” Climbing one more step, Brent could hear the creaking of the old wooden stairs. Again stopping to listen, he closed his eyes, trying to concentrate on his sense of hearing. Still there was no response, but Brent decided to give it one more try. In a louder voice, he yelled, “Lucille, it’s Brent. If you can hear me make some noise?” After another long pause there was no answer, but he did hear feet shuffling on the floor above and what sounded like male voices.
Slowly, he continued up the stairs to the second floor. These homes were built so close to the shore that all the living space was on the second and third stories, the first floor was brick and mortar in case tropical storms or hurricanes flooded it.
Tiptoeing up the stairs, Brent’s weight compressed the wooden stairs, and a loud creaking sound could be heard with each step. Suddenly, the shuffling from above became louder and faster, then stopped altogether. Brent’s heart raced as he continued up the stairs, not sure if someone was about to jump him. Without any means of defending himself, he felt very vulnerable to an attack. He pulled his army utility knife out of his pants pocket—something was better than nothing.
Reaching the top of the stairs, he turned the doorknob, but the door had been jimmied shut. Someone had shoved something up against the inner door so it couldn’t be opened. If he was ever going to get in, it would have to be by force. Figuring that if someone was waiting to attack him, they wouldn’t have blocked access into the house, he felt a little more secure about his next move.
He threw his right shoulder against the door with all his might, and on the fourth try, he busted the door in. Squeezing through the small opening, Brent noticed that it had been a wooden chair, like a dining room chair, that had been pushed up against the door and jammed under the doorknob.
Once inside, Brent looked around to make sure there was no one else in the room. As he regained his composure, he focused on the room. He was standing in the den or great room. Everywhere he looked things had been thrown about and destroyed. Bookshelves lining the walls had been emptied and their contents strewn all over the room. Some of the volumes had been torn off their bindings, others were just thrown to the floor. The entertainment center was opened and the television set was pulled out. It lay busted in the middle of the floor of the great room. Couch and chair cushions had been slashed and their stuffing thrown about. The vandalous visitors had overlooked nothing.
In all the excitement, Brent had forgotten Lucille. Shoot, he thought. He called out again, “Lucille? Mrs. Conklin? Lucille, if you can hear me, try to make some noise so I can find you.” Motionless, he stood waiting, listening for any noise that would lead him to Lucille’s whereabouts. Nothing. All he could hear was his heartbeat.
He carefully maneuvered out of the great room. Careful not to step on or disturb anything, he made his way toward the back of the townhouse. Walking along a short hallway, he noticed the pictures had been ripped from the walls, their glass frames busted and pictures torn from their backings. He saw pictures of Lucille and Joseph taken recently and long ago. Strewn among the broken glass was a small family portrait in which Lucille held a baby. That one had to have been thirty or forty years old, Brent thought. Picking it up, Brent wondered what had happened to the baby.
The door to the small bathroom on the left side of the hallway was open, and like the front room, everything in it was a mess. The medicine cabinet had been pulled off the wall and every medicine bottle was opened and emptied. Brent looked but didn’t walk in. He proceeded to the room at the end of the hall—to the master bedroom.
This room, like the others, had been trashed. No dresser, end table or shelf had been left intact. All of the contents were broken and thrown about. Brent carefully walked deeper into the room. The bed had been pulled apart, its bedding ripped from the mattress that had been separated from the box spring and which was pulled off the bed frame. Both had been cut. Much like the couch and chair cushions. His mind flashed to Seven.
“When you walk into a new or strange territory,” Seven had said, “don’t disturb the environment. If you look around carefully, you’ll find clues to what may have been there before you. Be alert to what isn’t congruent or doesn’t belong to the environment.”
Big word for an inbred hick, Brent thought. Maybe he’s not as stupid as I first thought.
Seven concluded by saying, “The more disturbed you find things, the more of a hurry the predator was in.”
Brent looked around the room. Whoever was here before me didn’t care if they disturbed this environment, so he must have been in a very big hurry. Everything was such a mess, he assumed the intruders hadn’t been thieves who were looking for jewelry and money. They wouldn’t have trashed the place like they did.
As he continued to view his environment, he noticed that every drawer, cabinet, shelf, picture and knickknack had been thoroughly gone through. If something was broken along the way, it hadn’t mattered. They were definitely looking for something specific, he thought, and it must have been small or they wouldn’t have been willing to look inside pictures frames and other small spaces. He concentrated on the small broken pieces when he again flashed back to Seven.
“When reading an environment, your eyes and brain will want to lock onto the details. Don’t let them. Always look at the big picture first and then make your way to the little things. Make sure you look at the forest, not just the trees.”
Brent shut his eyes to clear his mind of the details. When he reopened them, he looked at the big picture. He continued to view his environment. All the windows were closed and every door was open. His eyes suddenly darted to the right. The closet door was shut. That shouldn’t be, unless whoever did this is in there or…Lucille.
Brent ran to the closet and threw open the doors. Inside the large walk-in closet, he found Lucille. Her wrists and ankles were duct taped to the arms and legs of a chair. Her body was slumped forward, but Brent could still see her face. It was badly bruised and bleeding.
“My God, what kind of animal could have done this to her?” he said as he put his hand on her neck to find a pulse. He prayed, “Please, God, let her be alive.” He found a faint pulse. “Thank God,” he said.
Brent searched the room until his eyes locked onto what he was looking for: a phone.
He flew across the room, grabbed the phone and was relieved to hear a dial tone. He dialed 9-1-1. “Emergency operator, how can I direct your call?”
“I need an ambulance. An elderly woman has been badly beaten and is unconscious.”
“Okay, sir, stay calm. Help is on the way. May I get your name, please?”
“Just send the ambulance,” Brent yelled.
“It’s on its way, sir. Please stay on the line until it arrives, all right?”
“No, it’s not all right. I need to be with her.” Brent didn’t hang up but dropped the phone. He could hear the operator as he ran back to Lucille. He checked her pulse again. It was weaker and slower, but at least she was still alive. He noticed her feet were turning blue, so using his utility knife, he cut the tape from her ankles.
That’s when he saw the hypodermic needle and the vial under the chair. They drugged her, too? What the heck were they after? He picked up the vial and read the label: C11H17N2NaO2S. Sodium pentothal, Brent thought. He hadn’t seen a bottle like that since he left Delta, and he hoped he’d never see one again. He put the vial in his pocket and continued to cut the tape that bound her.
He could hear the soun
d of sirens getting louder as the ambulance approached. He was untying her wrists when he heard a paramedic call out, “Hello? This is the fire department. Where are you?”
“In here, end of the hall, back bedroom,” Brent answered. Three paramedics entered into the bedroom. Brent waved them to the closet.
“It’s all right, we’ll take over from here. Please step aside.”
“What the heck happened here,” another paramedic asked.
“I don’t know. I just arrived and this is what I found,” Brent answered.
The paramedics carefully lifted Lucille from the chair while a third held her head to keep it from falling forward. “Ready on three: one, two, three, lift.” They placed her on a backboard. Brent stepped back, watching them work quickly and quietly. One paramedic strapped Lucille’s head down and cushioned her neck to keep it from moving, while another strapped her to the backboard. The third paramedic placed an oxygen mask on her and started an IV in her right arm. With duties all performed, the lieutenant felt for a pulse again.
“Stronger,” he said.
He grabbed a clipboard and walked over to Brent while the others attended to Lucille.
“What happened here?” he asked.
“I don’t know. I came over for dinner and this is what I found.”
The lieutenant looked at him inquisitively. Reaching down on his equipment belt, he grabbed his radio. “Dispatch P.D. We have a crime scene.” To Brent, he said, “I’d stick around, buddy. I’m sure the police will have a lot more questions for you. What is the woman’s name?”
“Her name is Lucille, Lucille Conklin. If they want to talk to me, tell them they can find me at the hospital. I’m going with you.”
“Are you family?”
“Closest thing she has to it,” Brent answered.
The other paramedics had picked up the backboard and carried Lucille from the townhouse. The lieutenant and Brent followed. As he passed the table near the front door, Brent grabbed Lucille’s purse. He shut the door as best he could. She may want her purse when she wakes up, he thought. Brent climbed into the back of the ambulance once Lucille was secured in place. He sat quietly as the vehicle raced to the hospital. The only thing going faster than the ambulance was his mind. Who could do this to such a sweet lady? Does this have something to do with the books? It must…what about Maddie? Does she have something to do with this? Brent thought about telling the police about Maddie, then he thought better of it. No, this is something I’m going to have to figure out on my own.
CHAPTER 14
The ambulance came to a quick stop, and the back doors flew open. Two men slid Lucille out the back and wheeled her into the hospital as fast as possible.
Brent didn’t say a word, he just kept pace.
“Cardiac ICU,” one said as they approached the elevator. The other punched number three and everyone moved onto the elevator. Once on the third floor, the rescuers wheeled Lucille through large double doors. Again, Brent followed. Lucille was taken into a room and transferred onto a bed.
The charge nurse came running in and pulled Brent aside. “I’m sorry. Family only in ICU.”
“I am family,” he said.
“Okay, fine. But I still need you to wait in the hall while we check your…?”
“Aunt,” he said quickly, “she’s my Aunt Lucille.”
Brent stood outside the room and watched through the glass. Nurses worked quickly and efficiently, hooking the blood pressure and pulse monitors up to her. Then they drew the curtain around them. When it reopened, Lucille had been changed into a hospital gown and all manner of wires had been attached to her chest and legs. EKG leads, he thought. The charge nurse then hooked three bags of medication to her IV, rechecked her blood pressure and came out of the room.
“Your aunt is very lucky to be alive,” the nurse said. “She is fortunate you came along. She took quite a beating. She was drugged with something that left her close to dead. We won’t know what it was until we get toxicology reports back.”
“It was sodium pentothal,” Brent said. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the vial and handed it to the nurse. “I found this under the chair they had her tied to.”
“I’ll notify the lab,” she said. “This will make things a lot easier. The doctor will be able to prescribe the exact meds to neutralize the effects. Thank you, Mr.…?”
“Venturi, Brent Venturi. And your name is?”
“Nurse Collins, Susan Collins.”
Just then, the double doors to the ICU swung open. The paramedic entered, flanked by two police officers. Pointing in Brent’s direction, the paramedic in charge said, “That’s him, that’s the guy who was inside the house and called 9-1-1.”
“Thanks, Jim. We’ll take it from here.”
“No problem. See you guys later.” The paramedic turned and left.
The officers walked over to Brent. Both had one hand resting on the butt end of their still-holstered revolvers. The other hand was tucked into their front pockets, but not relaxed. They looked like they meant business, ready for a confrontation if one should arise.
Standing in front of Brent, the one said, “I’m Sergeant Owens and this is my partner, Officer Sullivan. We understand you’re the person who found the victim.”
“Yes, officer, I found her.”
“I’d appreciate it if you called me Sergeant. I worked hard for these stripes.”
“I apologize, Sergeant Owens. I meant no disrespect.”
“Yeah, whatever. We have some questions for you. Do you mind following us?”
“No, I don’t mind. Where are we going?”
“Doctors’ lounge. We can sit and talk privately there.”
The officers turned to walk out, one in front of Brent, the other in back of him.
“Wait a second, please,” Brent said. With that, he turned toward the nurse’s station and spoke to the head nurse. “Susan, I mean Nurse Collins, will you please notify me as soon as my aunt comes to.”
“You’ll be the first to know, Mr. Venturi,” she answered.
“Thank you.” He turned back to face Sergeant Owens who had just turned around, and started walking towards the doors. He led the way and Officer Sullivan trailed behind Brent. They walked back through the doors and down the hall to the doctors’ lounge.
The room was empty. The officers sat at the first table they came to and pulled over a third chair. Officer Sullivan removed a notepad from his back pocket. The sergeant led off the questioning. “I’m going to ask you some questions and Sully here is going to jot it all down. Is that okay with you?”
“Fine,” Brent answered.
“State your name.”
“Brent Venturi.”
“How do you know the victim?”
“Stop calling her a victim. Her name is Lucille Conklin, and she is my aunt.” Just as he said that, Brent thought, I pray they don’t find out the truth before I get a chance to speak to her.
The sergeant continued. “What were you doing at 248 Ocean Bluff Drive this evening?”
“I was meeting my aunt for dinner.”
“What happened when you got there?”
Brent rehashed the entire story. Officer Sullivan scribbled as fast as he could, a few times asking Brent to repeat something or to slow down because he couldn’t write fast enough.
Owens sat there the entire time, looking straight at Brent. It was more as if he looked through Brent. The staring began to make Brent uncomfortable, but he tried not to show it; that was exactly what Sergeant Owens was trying to do. He knew that if the subject was made to feel uncomfortable, chances were he’d more likely get caught in a lie.
After Brent finished his statement, the sergeant said, “Nice story.”
“That’s not a story; those are the facts,” Brent said, raising his voice.
The serg
eant stood up and looked down at Brent. “No, these are the facts. One, you broke into the victim’s house. Two, one set of fingerprints were found all over her house, and they were found on the tape used to bind that poor woman’s legs to the chair. Three, they are the only fingerprints other than hers that were found. Four, none of her neighbors heard anything from inside her home until they heard you bust the door in, and finally, five, one through four make you the prime suspect, so I advise you to stay in town. Sully, print him.”
Brent sat in his chair, wiping the ink off his fingers, as if shell-shocked.
In the deafening silence, he said, “My aunt will clear all this up when she regains consciousness.”
“You’d better hope she makes it, Mr. Venturi.” With that, Officer Sullivan stood, and both he and the sergeant walked out of the room without looking at Brent.
“Let’s run a background check on our new friend here and see what skeletons shake loose.”
“I bet he has a long sheet of priors,” Sully said. “He just looks bad, ya know?”
“Yeah, I know what you mean,” Owens said.
Brent laughed under his breath. Good luck even finding my name in your database, he said to himself, never mind my prints. The Special Ops group Brent had been assigned to was so undercover and covert that all public and military records of their existence had been wiped out once they’d finished advanced survival training. That way, if any of them were ever caught by the enemy, the government could say they had no record of who they were and could deny knowledge of the mission. Brent’s thoughts drifted back to Delta Force survival training.
Four days into the final exercise: the survival drop. Brent was so close to completing the mission he could smell success. That’s when he heard the rumble. What started out as a faint noise got louder and louder. As the sound grew louder, the ground vibrated. Oh no, he thought. Rockslide!
