ELIJAH: A Suspense Novel

by Frank Redman

  I looked back to the male orderly/nurse. So, of all of the questions I could have asked, you know, trivial things like, ‘Where am I?’ ‘What am I doing here?’ ‘Why am I strapped to the bed?’ ‘What are you going to do to me?’ etc. Instead, I ask, “Are you an orderly or a nurse?” Really, it was important for me to know. If I was going to die, I wanted it to be at the hands of a nurse. Not an orderly. It just didn’t seem right. I mean, you don’t ever hear stories about evil orderlies. Only evil nurses. After all, Nurse Ratched wasn’t Orderly Ratched.

  I needed help. More ways than one.

  Some people have an abstract fear of clowns.

  I fear orderlies.

  The orderly/nurse did not respond to my question. He lifted a chrome lid, exposing a tray that held a small plastic cup with pills and a hypodermic syringe.

  For a brief moment my mind yelled, Food! I realized then, I was starving.

  I realized something else, and said, “Can I go to the bathroom?” My early premonition about needing to go to the bathroom had come true. My prognostication skills were still pretty good.

  Again, maybe not the most important thing to ask within the grand scheme of things, but the situation did have the greatest criticality for the immediate future.

  The… I’ll just call him Man, ignored me. Man waved his hand palm up over the tray, indicating I had a choice between the pills or the shot.

  I said, “What is it?”

  Evidently, Man grew tired of my incessant questioning. He picked up the shot, swabbed my right upper arm with alcohol, and not worrying about being gentle, buried the needle and pushed the clear fluid into me.

  Um, ow!

  Then he turned the cart around and walked out of the room.

  The cat stayed. We stared at each other for a while.

  I said, “I don’t suppose you can get these straps off me, can you? And, are you edible?”

  I let out a little giggle, then erupted into laughter. I knew what I said wasn’t funny, and it certainly wasn’t calming my bladder, but I couldn’t help it. I was happy! Tears gathered in my eyes, then slid down my cheeks to the bed. One tear tickled my left ear on the way. I laughed enthusiastically.

  The cat wasn’t impressed. Why was he even there? How was he there?

  Two men entered the room. In my exuberance, my fear abated, I couldn’t care less whether they were orderlies or nurses. One held a small black device with two metal prongs. It looked cool. He pushed a button, and blue current like miniature lightning bolts arced between the prongs. Way cool! It was probably meant to be a threat.

  I thought it was funny. I laughed.

  The other one unlocked the door to the bathroom. It was locked? Now that was hilarious. I laughed even more. I looked at the two guys, neither of them were laughing. Nor was the cat. That’s okay, I had enough joy for all of us.

  That same little room, Reason Room, opened its door and this cute little entity, Reason, popped its head out. It tried to get my attention to tell me nothing was funny and that something was wrong with the way I was acting.

  Ah. Drugs. I burst out loud, “Happy hypo! Happy happy hypo!” And laughed. Oh how I laughed.

  Reason slammed the door.

  Ouch.

  I laughed anyway.

  One dude—now they were dudes instead of orderlies or nurses—unstrapped me.

  “Thanks, dude.”

  He gestured toward the bathroom. I noticed the people around here don’t talk much. Oh well. I gave the dude a thumbs up and flashed a winning smile. I didn’t know how long it had been since I’d gone to the bathroom, but wow, did it take a long time to empty my bladder! That made me snicker.

  Fun!

  I used my foot to flush the toilet, because even while drugged I was still a germaphobe, washed my hands and went back into the room.

  One dude locked the bathroom door. Both dudes left. The cat was gone. I was still hungry, but I was too happy to worry about it.

  But then the door opened again and a different dude pushed in a cart. The same grey and white cat followed him in. The dude lifted the cover: FOOD! Omigosh! I was elated! I wanted to give him a big hug, but the dude quickly pulled out one of those shocky thingies and stepped back. I said, “Just a little thank you hug?”

  He looked at me, expression blank, then pressed the button, creating a sizzle noise.

  Okay, he didn’t want a hug. But that’s all right. I had food! A banana, an apple, and an orange! And they were deeelightful. At some point while I ate, the dude left. I didn’t even get to say thank you.

  The cat stayed behind, eyeing me. I offered a piece of banana.

  I heard, No thank you.

  Whoa! The cat talked!

  Oh, wait, he projected that to me.

  I’d forgotten about the whole animal communication thing.

  I tried to listen to Reason (Ha! Listen to Reason). I almost started laughing again, but I squeezed my mind, like squeezing my fist, exerting self-control. It seemed to help.

  Maybe I could get some information from the cat if he’d cooperate.

  Cats—animals—don’t usually choose a party line and side with the bad guys. They can be trained. And they can even be manipulated to express malice. But an animal is not a “bad guy.” An animal may kill, but survival and protection are not the same as killing because they’re evil, vengeful, envious, lustful, greedy, etc. It is the virus of human corruption that taints animals.

  Go us.

  I figured that even if I was under audio/video surveillance and I talked to the cat, those monitoring would think I was crazy because of the drugs, or just naturally crazy. They wouldn’t be able to hear the cat respond, if he chose to.

  I eyed the cat and took a bite of the apple. After swallowing, I said, “What is your name?”

  The cat said, Winchester, sir.

  Despite my sincere effort, I couldn’t help it. I laughed. “Winchester? Sir?”

  The cat repeated, Indeed. Winchester, sir. He actually had an aristocratic, British accent. I’ve rarely encountered an animal with sufficient intelligence for sophisticated communication. Tyler was above average. But it’s rarer still to communicate with one that had an accent. I can’t even pretend to explain how that’s possible.

  I continued laughing and continued to try to stop, which only made it worse, as is usually the case. “Winchester! That’s great!” I used my shirt to wipe the tears from my eyes. I said, as gravely as I could manage, “I’m terribly sorry, I mean no offense.”

  Winchester just looked at me with a stoic expression.

  Finally composing myself, I said, “Really, I’m sorry.”

  Winchester’s expression did not change.

  Great, I thought, I’d offended the cat.

  Winchester said, The gentlemen dressed in white will be back soon to get your tray. They will make you go to sleep. Then another time they will interview you, and you them. His Grace, my master’s preferred name, takes great pride in this institution.

  I said, “What is this place?”

  His Grace will explain. Afterward, you will never be the same. You do not want to be here, sir. I humbly suggest you leave.

  Of course I wanted to leave! But I didn’t say for fear of scaring off my one chance to get help, Winchester.

  All of the humor, drug-induced or not, died. I took a deep breath, then said, “Can you help me?”

  The door to my room opened and two men entered, one pushing another cart.

  Winchester jumped to the floor and trotted to the door. I cannot. Do not take the pills. He left.

  I wanted to throw something at the cat. But I didn’t have anything. Besides, I didn’t want to be strapped down again. They may do so anyway, but little doubt they would upon seeing me act out in anger.

  As before, one of the men lifted a chrome lid, revealing a tray with a hypodermic syringe and a tiny cup of pills. He waved a hand over the items, waiting for me to choose. Don’t take the pills, so says Winchester. I pointed to the syri
nge.

  The man grabbed the shot, swabbed my arm with alcohol, and plunged the needle.

  Ouch.

  I wondered if this was Winchester’s way of getting even with me for laughing at him. No. Tyler was mischievous, but truly getting even with someone was a human response. Winchester gave me a message, even if it seemed weak. What did I expect? He’s a cat. It was my job to figure it out.

  The man covered the tray and placed my food tray on the cart. They left.

  Thankfully, even though I’d finished the food, they did not strap me to the bed.

  And then I discovered why. The shot was a tranquilizer. I wondered what the pills were. Same thing?

  I slumped and my upper body felt heavy. I stretched on the bed to take the pressure off. This time, I needed to think. I needed to decipher. I needed to plan.

  I slept.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  I woke up the next day. Or was it? I didn’t know. No clock and no day/night cycles to observe equals no idea what time or day it was. My biological clock could have helped, but I’d been sleeping, tranquilized, and eating at different intervals.

  I was hungry and thirsty, and needed to go to the bathroom again. So it had to have been a few hours, at least.

  I checked the bathroom door, still locked. Even though I knew the answer, I checked the hallway door, and received a shock. The door shocked me. Not static. A true jolt.

  I felt like I was in a Pavlov experiment. Just to be defiant, I touched the doorknob again.

  Ow.

  I looked around the room. Maybe I really was an experiment. I assumed rooms like mine neighbored both sides.

  In my current state, I was completely dependent on the evil orderlies for food, drink, and toileting. Maybe they wanted to see how I’d react. How long before I lost it and went berserk. Or how long before I just gave up and accepted my new life.

  Fun times.

  I got back onto the bed and despair fell upon me like someone spreading a blanket.

  Was this really my new life? How long would it take before my musculature weakened from inactivity? I did a few jumping jacks and some pushups.

  How long could I endure the monotony of being in the same place, doing the same things, day after day after day? How long before I went insane?

  What about the kids here? What kind of life were they living?

  Worse. They were being used for sex.

  God help them.

  I closed my eyes. Images from my past, things that I have seen tormented me. They gave me a sick understanding of what they were going through.

  God help them.

  God help me.

  I looked at my hands. And then the scars on my left arm, turning the arm over. The skin had deep grooves. In other places it was raised and in various colors, white, red, and tan. Some sections looked especially stretched as attempts were made to stitch the numerous patches and slices of skin back together.

  Uncle Joe offered to pay for plastic surgery. But by then I’d lived with the scarring for so long, it was just as much a part of me as the arm itself.

  I had been through worse than this. I had lived through darker, seemingly hopeless days. Yet I had persevered.

  Those kids, they didn’t even know it. But I was most likely their best chance for escaping.

  I had survived. I would survive again. And I would do everything I could to help them survive.

  I’m not a hero. But that’s not going to stop me from doing my best impersonation.

  I may fail. No, considering my circumstances, I probably would fail. But failing to do something—anything—was worse than unforgiveable.

  Based on the smiling naked girl, who knows what kind of psychological damage had already been inflicted.

  The door opened and two of the guys in white entered, but this time, they were accompanied by a third man, this one in a black suit, a stark contrast to the two in white. As usual, the orderlies/nurses did not speak.

  Maybe that was why the suit joined them. He said, “Hello, Mr. Raven. His Grace would like to speak with you. You may go with us peacefully, or we can influence you to be peaceful. We would prefer you to be lucid for this conversation.” One side of his mouth twitched up.

  My brain stopped on ‘His Grace.’ Who in this age really wanted to be called His Grace? “Uh, I’m sorry, can you repeat that?”

  The Suit looked at me evenly.

  I saw Winchester the cat walk by in the hallway. He did not enter, nor did he look into the room.

  I stammered, trying to recall the rest of what he said. My eyes flicked between the three men. “Yeah, um, yes, peacefully. I’ll go peacefully. Who are you?”

  “Who I am is not important. This way.” He extended his arm to the doorway.

  I stood, then the orderlies displayed in unison their wares for me to see. In one hand, they each held a Taser. In the other, huge hypodermic syringes.

  Hell’s bells, screw up now and I’d be a vegetable.

  The Suit led the way into the hallway. The evil orderlies followed. I tried to see as much as I could, and memorize the layout of the building as we weaved through hallways. From what I could see, the rest of the place also looked like a hospital, though without some of the things you’d expect to see. Like IV stands, monitors, wheeled hospital beds or gurneys in the hallways, or staff, except for the two following me. What I did see were a few more cats. There were several rooms, but the door to each was closed. I could hear indistinct noises coming from some of the rooms.

  We took an elevator up. The hallway meeting us was strikingly different. Floor to ceiling mahogany paneling, green-shaded light fixtures mounted on the walls, thick, burgundy carpeting… The space looked like it belonged to Fortune 500 executives, not a hospital.

  We walked down the long hallway to the door at the end. The Suit opened the door, holding it for the rest of us to enter. We were in what was probably supposed to be a receptionist area, but was instead more like an antechamber. Really. It looked straight out of a castle. Stone floor and columns, huge tapestries hung from the walls, gold trimmed furniture… Instead of a receptionist’s desk, there was a long wooden table. The coffered ceiling had a large oval shaped area in which a battle scene was painted, angels versus demons.

  The Suit walked to the table and pressed a button, then two French doors slid open, revealing another room. A Throne Room. Complete with throne, although it was empty. And instead of stairs that led to a raised seating area for the throne, there was a ramp.

  An executive desk was off to the right side of the room, next to a large fireplace. A man who looked to be in his 40’s sat behind the desk, eating something. Standing to his right was one of the Goon Brothers that tried to kill Jenny and me at her house. The German leader of that group sat in a chair at a small table a few feet away.

  The man eating at the desk looked up as we entered. “Ah, Mr. Raven. A pleasure. Do come closer so that I may have a good look at you.” He had a German accent, but not nearly as strong as that of the goon leader. His brown hair was thinning on top, and he had a round, portly face. There was an excess amount of skin under the chin that rolled into a thick neck. I could not see his body behind the desk, but the sight of his face and pudgy fingers suggested he was obese.

  I turned to see if my personal escorts were still with me. Affirmative. The goon behind the fat man glowered at me. I imagined he was internally begging for me to try something idiotic. Though… he may not have actually thought the word idiotic—too many syllables. Dumb was more likely.

  I noted the absence of Goon Brother.

  Having a shortage of good choices at that moment, I approached the desk as directed.

  The fat man indicated the goon and said, “That is Boris. I’m sure you remember his brother, Moris, who is no longer with us.”

  “Oops,” I thought. And said.

  The goon—Boris—looked at me in a way that gave me the impression he was visualizing doing really mean things to me, like snapping every bone in m
y body, one at a time, then pulling each individual broken bone out with unsanitized clamps, after first, of course, cutting open the skin with a saws-all (also unsanitized) to gain easy access, then rearranging the bones in places they weren’t supposed to go.

  The fat man waved toward the goon leader and said, “I believe you are already acquainted with Wilhelm Hecter.”

  Hecter gave me a slanted smile and inclined his head slightly.

  I wanted to say something smart like, ‘What, are you supposed to be, some sort of Hannibal Lecter wannabe?’ But I was lacking in appropriate Jedi Knight skills. And what I wanted to say would have surely been classified by Boris as belonging in the “Dumb” category. Though he wouldn’t have thought classified. Or category for that matter. He would have simply thought, Smash.

  So I said it anyway. And added, “If so, you suck at it. Hannibal is way cooler. And better looking.”

  He maintained his slanted smile, but his face reddened a shade or two.

  Boris made no response. I guess I gave him too much credit. Or he agreed with me that Hecter was a sucky Hannibal.

  The fat man laughed. “Such impudence from the little duck!” He beat his palm on the desk and laughed again.

  I turned to see if I was about to get zapped by a Taser. The Suit had snuck out of the room. The evil orderlies might as well have had sheetrock for faces.

  The fat man worked to regain his composure. He used a handkerchief to wipe his eyes and his forehead, then said, “Please, please sit down,” and pointed to a heavy-looking leather wingback chair facing opposite him on the other side of the desk.

  As I walked toward the chair and sat, he pressed a button on the right arm of his chair, and then a stick popped up. He maneuvered the joystick and glided around the desk. He was in a wheelchair. He moved up to me and said, “You’ll forgive me for not standing,” he waved his arms at the wheelchair. “It is a difficult proposition for me. I, am Aaron Lynch.” His bushy eyebrows waggled and I noticed he was very expressive with mouth and eyebrows as he spoke.