Running into the Darkness

by D. A. Bale

  Then came the connection between Castor and that strange company – Oleander Enterprises. Why would an international antiques dealer be interested in a Midwestern construction conglomerate? Normal channels hadn’t turned up anything further there, and nothing in the letter from Mr. Eddis mentioned Oleander. They were still the unknown fly in the soup. Maybe if he focused his attentions there for a little while, the trigger-happy Nazis at Castor might lay off.

  Maybe he’d just pay Manny Castor another little visit.

  Chief Snowe stuck his head around the corner during the mental deliberations. “Mind if I join you?”

  “Always a pleasure, Chief.”

  Joe rearranged the stacks piled on his desk so the chief would have someplace to prop his feet. They sat staring at each other for several minutes, the noise of the precinct dying down in the background. The concern in the chief’s eyes was palpable.

  “It’s been a rough year for you.”

  “That it has, Chief.”

  “How’s his wife holding up?”

  “Rebecca? It’s tough this time of year, especially with the kids, but she’s always been a strong woman. Given time, she’ll pull through.”

  “And you?”

  “I’ll manage.”

  Manage – it’s what detectives did best. At least he did. Nothing to hold him back. No family to tie him down. He could work from sunup to sunup and no one would think the less of him for it. Besides, it was what kept him sane. If he had too much time on his hands, he might actually stop long enough to consider what he’d missed out on in life thus far. At least he’d never leave a Rebecca and two kids waiting on a doorstep for him never to return.

  “Would a change in routine and scenery help?”

  “I think I’ve got enough here to keep me busy through next year and then some. A vacation is out of the question at the moment.”

  “Wasn’t talking about a vacation. A spot has opened up at Quantico.”

  Joe’s ears perked up at the statement. “The FBI training facility?”

  “You still interested?”

  “But I put my last application in over a year ago. Figured they’d weeded me out for more qualified candidates again.”

  “They just sent over the forms and a letter of acceptance. You ready to throw away twenty weeks of your life?”

  Chief Snowe plopped the documents on the desk, the acceptance letter practically staring him down, daring him to make the leap. His dream job. It finally lay in his grasp. But he couldn’t leave his current investigations on Castor and Oleander. Who knew what additional information was waiting to be scrounged up.

  Then again, where else could he glean the most intricate of investigative databases? If he got into the FBI, he’d have those databases at his fingertips. It would take some time to earn the necessary security clearances, but then he would blow the investigation wide open and tie up the loose ends between Castor and Oleander. Perhaps it wasn’t even Castor, but someone at Oleander who pulled the strings.

  The timing was perfect. Yes, he needed to get away where he could clear his head and start the investigation afresh. He owed it to Bill…and Sam.

  “Where do I sign?”

  Chapter 28 - Scars

  The technology the Elite utilized continued to amaze her. Surgical scars were sped along in their healing by daily ultraviolet therapy to lesson appearances. The scars gradually turned a silver gray before miraculously blending into the fabric of Samantha’s skin as if she’d never undergone the knife. Debrille would not have it known that her body had been enhanced. Would be a dead giveaway and endanger the plan.

  They had Samantha up and running again – stairs in the gym to add natural contour to the buttock enhancements. Martial arts focus moved from power to sleek movement, limbering and stretching the muscles and tendons of her body until she felt like a contortionist. The arduous pace of study increased, with the Russian language added to the mix. Then began the strangest thing of all – ballroom dancing, not her strongest subject.

  The physical scars healed as the emotional scars built. Each night as Marcus utilized his training techniques, Samantha’s heart ached with the knowledge that she’d never have love behind the deed. As Marcus drilled his member into her body, he drilled her thoughts to see everything clinically, calculated, as if they were in surgical care together merely prepping a nude body.

  The Elite had her. She’d never escape the destiny they had planned. The realization forced her to focus on learning everything possible so she’d be ready – so she could become Alexandra.

  Marcus flipped her over the mahogany headboard and thrust into her, gripping her breasts and tugging as if he were milking a heifer. At least they weren’t sore anymore. Samantha gripped the carved wood and stared as if thru the wall, Marcus whispering directives in her ear as his hands slid over her supple body. But just as Marcus had taught, she ignored his hands and focused her thoughts inward to her studies: White House history, D.C. monuments, the archives, internal workings of the State Department, the Department of Defense. She dredged up all the minute details of the latest White House briefing transcripts. Then her mind turned to him.

  Frederick Warner had graduated Harvard Law, summa cum laude. Served in the Navy, but failed the Seals. He’d married a debutante from a respectable Virginia family. Why then had he eventually returned with her to Kansas when living in Virginia presented greater political opportunities? That had probably gone over well with the wife. History showed him to be a driven man, as if he’d always planned to become President as he moved up the political ranks. But something in the equation seemed to be missing.

  An image of her mother flashed in Samantha’s mind. She imagined her on the campaign bus, still wearing her pure white hat. Then Warner had coaxed her into his private room and defiled her. The bus swayed as Warner thrust into her, her mother helpless to stop it. Anger boiled to the surface.

  In a sudden burst, Samantha spun around, gripped Marcus’ shoulders and threw him onto the mattress before straddling him. He didn’t fight her, but pressed upward with each downward stoke of her pelvis. With her muscles, she pressed herself tighter around his penis as if she would rip it from his body. Her rhythm increased. His breathing kept pace until red crept into his chest and neck and Samantha drew the semen from his body.

  She slid off the bed and slipped the robe around her shoulders in a huff. Anger burned in her veins, but Marcus grabbed her arm before she could escape.

  “That was good to see – you took control of the situation.”

  Samantha silently stared at the door but yielded to his touch. With uncharacteristic gentleness, Marcus sat her on the bed in attempt to look her in the eye.

  “But Samantha took control out of anger – emotion. What were you thinking of in that moment?”

  Samantha seethed. She didn’t want to talk to him or anyone about it. Marcus would never understand, the man remained a cube of ice with no heart or feeling. But if she didn’t speak up, he’d get it out of her one way or other. It was the ‘other’ that always unnerved her.

  “What he did to my mother.”

  Marcus sighed. “You can’t be thinking of him that way during sex. It always leads to emotional responses – reactions. Alexandra has to stay in absolute control when she is using her body. No emotion whatsoever. She doesn’t react but initiates, calculates. After all this time, what is it you don’t understand here?”

  The attitude set her off. They treated her like a child one moment and expected her to be a robot the next. First Samantha then Alexandra. Marcus had the audacity to be upset with her, and after she’d agreed to go along with this lunacy. Warm tears cascaded down her face. The words just spilled from her mouth in a torrent.

  “What is it you don’t understand? That monster raped my mother, and I live as the product of that act. What do you expect me to do, be able to just walk up to him someday, rip off my clothes and tell the man to have at it? Then somehow I have to pretend that I’m not the by-pr
oduct of his past indiscretion? That I’m not committing incest? At least he would be an unwitting party in that regard.”

  In medical school she’d never been able to cast aside emotion. She couldn’t do it then. She couldn’t do it now. All this downplaying of emotions and feelings, never able to give acknowledgement to her disgust over what she had to do, wore her thin to near hysterics. Be Alexandra. Be Alexandra. The mantra swam in her weary mind to the point that even when they allowed her time to sleep by herself she just stared at the ceiling or walls. How in the world could one separate oneself from it all? From reality?

  The dead eyes of the prostitutes in the New York emergency rooms, on the subways and street corners, came back to haunt her. She had become just like them.

  A hand flew at her from out of nowhere and connected across her cheek. It stung. It burned. It rattled her mind. Marcus stared at her with dark blue eyes before his image blurred. Samantha slid from the bed and dissolved in a heap on the floor. Sobs wracked her body. The ache had seeped through to the core of her being, more stark and overwhelming in its force.

  Arms lifted her and lay her in the soft folds of the bed. Marcus stretched out beside her and wrapped her with the same unusual gentleness he’d displayed moments before. Eventually Samantha’s tears subsided. She slept.

  The darkness clawed at the edge of her dreams.

  ***

  The release of pent-up emotions set Samantha along the path the Elite needed her to walk. Her mind focused, sharpened, and absorbed every morsel of study, whether by book, body, or bed. As Debrille grew more pleased with her progress, he rewarded her with increasing autonomy and welcomed sleep. The security of her position increased, her life holding greater value in the circle of the Elite. She saw it also in the way the guards approached or handled her – more so in the way they avoided her. This confidence she exercised with Marcus during their nightly excursions.

  Their sex grew meticulous, and with Samantha’s increasing sense of Alexandra’s power it sizzled hot and intense. They broke in the beautiful mahogany dining table, the countertop, and the enormous bear rug near the fire one night. Her mind worked constantly during the act, noticing the obvious and then ever so slight changes Marcus made around his rooms – the mirror on the west wall instead of the north, a red candle on the mantle in place of the white, the lampshade, a Cabernet instead of the Merlot on top of the wine rack. But never did she lose track of exactly what to perform with Marcus’ mouth suckling her breasts, the muscles between her legs pulsating rhythmically around his rock hard member. She felt without feeling.

  Marcus swept her up in ballroom dancing, the two left feet of Samantha replaced with the elegant and exacting steps of Alexandra. Samantha’s body became Alexandra’s the night she’d seductively slid from the black, silk dress and danced around Marcus in nothing but the diamond necklace and black patent stilettos. It was Alexandra’s hands that assisted Marcus from his shirt and pants and led him by his willing penis.

  No space existed between their sweating bodies as they danced the waltz, the tango, and the sultry rumba. Marcus’ hands slid over Alexandra’s hips, up Alexandra’s back, as their naked and unencumbered bodies melted into fluid movement across the floor. They ended by writhing together on the parquet floor, uncaring if anyone should stop by to watch their escapade as Alexandra drew the semen from his body like sucking poison from his veins.

  Alexandra knew she had Marcus the night he visited her chamber.

  Throughout the months of training as Alexandra increased in prominence, Samantha’s heart calloused over, never allowed involvement in the actions – only the mind of Alexandra, calculating, memorizing every movement and visualizing every document and schematic read that day. Samantha by day but Alexandra by night, a cunning seductress…

  …and murderer.

  Chapter 29 - A Holiday

  The sun warmed Samantha’s face as she lounged on the soft, manicured park lawn. Tears streamed from her eyes behind the dark sunglasses, but she didn’t mind dabbing them dry with the tissue as needed. For too long she’d not experienced the sunlight’s embrace, felt the whisper of a breeze through her hair. Nearly a year they’d kept her practically bound and chained in the dungeon of the Elite. She felt like a parolee just released from a maximum security prison, the spring grass pure heaven as she ran her fingers through the tender strands.

  Marcus too seemed to enjoy the rays from where he sat on the patchwork blanket, his eyes closed as if in sleep. Debrille’s goons took up positions here and there around the park, a few even held up newspapers. Yeah, right – like any of those thugs could possibly read. They were good for bulk and brawn only, never for brains.

  Thoughts of escaping the Elite were fleeting. Even if she could get away from these idiots, where would she go? How would she live? It’d only be a matter of time before they found her anyway, what with the little GPS chip embedded in her ear lobe, giving away her position twenty-four hours a day and threatening to blow her up at any second. Still, with all of her training Samantha couldn’t help calculating any numerous possibility of flight – no matter how elusive. That was one part of the Alexandra puzzle she had gotten down very quickly. Probably something to do with her medical mindset of always trying to figure out every possible solution to a problem.

  Several women ran by on the path, their faces reflecting the focus of a workout instead of enjoyment of the beauty around them. Sad how humanity took so much for granted. If she never saw another jogging path again it wouldn’t bother her one bit. Anything but the daily grind of running.

  A group of small children ran about playing catch with a big red ball. A strange longing arose – something she’d not allowed herself to think about since her surgeries. The Elite had severed all chances of having children with the removal of her fallopian tubes. Couldn’t risk the possibility of pregnancy and production of a genetically deformed child.

  Samantha hugged her knees to still the thoughts. “Tell me again why we’re here.”

  Marcus rolled his head toward her and peeked out of the slit of one eye. “You need to be re-acclimated to the real world, see the sights, familiarize yourself with the D.C. area the next couple of weeks.”

  “So I’m a tourist now, am I?”

  “More or less, but a tourist with a purpose.”

  Samantha swiped again at the dribbles running down her cheeks. It’d probably take said weeks before her eyes got used to the bright sunlight again.

  “Wish you would have brought me above ground on a more overcast day. Why today?”

  “No specific reason, just seemed like the time was right.”

  Rolling her eyes, Samantha responded, “Oh, puh-leeze. Don’t give me that crap. I can’t even relieve myself unless it fits into the grand plan of the Elite.”

  Gripping her arm, Marcus sat up slowly, his eyes burning through the darkness of his sunglasses. Caution seethed through his voice. “Never mention that name while on the surface. It doesn’t exist here. You got that?”

  Just like he’d taught her, Samantha kept her cool even though his grip nearly cut off her circulation. She stared off after the kids again, but inside her heart pounded as she fought to keep automatic reactions under control.

  “I understand, your highness.”

  “Enough with the theatrics. Just remember who you are up here.”

  Marcus let go of her arm. It felt like hundreds of needles jabbed it for a few moments after he released his stranglehold. She didn’t even bother to rub it because it would only make him mad. Debrille would be angry with Marcus if bruises surfaced, and she could almost hear Alexandra’s laughter in her mind at what Marcus would endure should bruising occur. Samantha shivered.

  Several food vendors had set up their carts at the bottom of the hill. “I’m hungry. Are you allowed any cash?”

  Marcus got up and stretched. “It might be a good idea to walk around a little bit, be seen and noticed.” He wrinkled his nose as he stared at the vendors. “Corn dogs
? That isn’t part of your diet.”

  Samantha leapt off the blanket and crumpled it up before smiling at the good doctor. “But you see I’m a vacationing tourist today. Make it two, please.” She nudged him in the ribs. “I’ll take a soda to wash it down.”

  Mr. Grumpy complained all the way down the hill, the luscious scent wafting in her nostrils. After securing her snack, they strolled along the sidewalk toward the Washington Monument, two corn dogs in hand while Marcus held and occasionally sipped her soda. To the casual observer they might appear like any other couple on holiday, touring the numerous sights, tasting the local fare, and soaking up the beautiful day. When Samantha finished the first corn dog, Marcus casually held her free hand as she offered him a bite of the second.

  “For appearances,” he told her as he sampled a nibble.

  A cavalcade of black SUV’s tore past with lights flashing, two limousines sandwiched between and followed by additional black vehicles flying by down the street. Samantha stopped. She gripped Marcus’ hand tighter until the rapid processional ended. The corn dogs sat like rocks in her stomach. It took all of her will to swallow the bite she held in her mouth, and she stared at the remainder before tossing it in the nearby trash can.

  Her father had just passed.

  Chapter 30 - Holes

  After each day’s excursion, they had to descend into the dreaded hell-hole again. But when Marcus finally put a gun in her hand, all she could see was the President’s face. Target practice encompassed the evenings below ground while her tourist experience continued above ground. Seemed an interesting combination: catch a glimpse of the President during the day and pretend to shoot him at night.

  Something didn’t fit. Why force her into being intimate with the President if they intended for her merely to shoot him? Marcus could shoot him in his sleep. They had a myriad of guards among the Elite with extensive weapons training. What about the Secret Service detail always running about? They were taught to take a bullet for the President without hesitation. No, shooting him didn’t add up at all. She missed something in the equation.