Painless

by Derek Ciccone

  When they exited, things went from bad to worse. Their ride was gone! Martin had left a note on the curb. It rambled vaguely about an emergency that forced him to leave immediately. Billy was suspicious—something had spooked Martin. Dana must’ve had the same thought because she was reaching for the gun. Billy prepared for an ambush similar to the one at the cabin, but none came.

  Stuck without a vehicle, Billy pulled out the envelope with the last-known address of Carol Ann and Steven Pennington on East Lyndon Street in Schenectady. According to their map, it was only a couple blocks away from Rockland Drive. Billy’s instincts tugged at him to go there. He wasn’t sure why. The Penningtons hadn’t lived there in over twenty years. But it wasn’t like they had a better plan at the moment.

  A fifteen-minute walk landed them into the driveway of 1154 East Lyndon Street. The neighborhood was a suburban sprawl that gave off the hopeful vibe of the American dream. It contrasted with the bleakness of the neighborhood they just left, even though only blocks separated them.

  Billy wasn’t sure what he hoped to find. Maybe he was hoping to run into some ghosts who could fill in his blanks. Or perhaps he had watched too many crime dramas where they always returned to the “scene of the crime.”

  Nobody appeared to be home at the modest, split-level colonial. He wondered how many others had occupied it since the Penningtons abandoned it all those years ago. He peered into the two-car garage and spotted a motorcycle. Billy had a brief daydream of smashing the garage window and taking the bike to North Carolina. Not a very likely scenario with three people, including a child. The heavily advertised security system was another obstacle.

  He lifted Carolyn onto his shoulders so she could look through the garage window. An excited look swallowed up her face. “I like motorcycles!”

  “We know,” Dana said with a motherly sarcasm.

  At another dead end, without any transportation, and running out of time, they took a seat on the curb in front of the house. They looked like a homeless family. Okay, now what?

  Options were dwindling.

  That’s when a middle-aged, power-walking couple appeared in matching sweat suits and sneakers so white they must have been right out of the box. The woman had long brown hair that was secured in a ponytail, while the man’s blond combover was struggling in its battle against the wind.

  The couple hesitantly approached them. The man spoke in suspicious neighborhood-watch tone. “I saw you looking into the Garcia’s house. Are they expecting you?”

  Billy and Dana were too tired to even look up. So Carolyn did the honors. She excitedly exclaimed, “They got a motorcycle!”

  The woman stared at Carolyn like she’d seen a ghost. The color drained from her face. When she regained some sense of composure, she uttered in a shaken voice, “Beth?”

  Chapter 61

  Beth awoke Friday morning to the smell of freshly cut flowers. It was her second day in captivity, although this version of captivity sure had a different twist—she never remembered reading about satin sheets in Vietnam prison camps.

  She remained in her room all day during her first full day on the plantation, with nobody coming to see her. They were treating her like a grounded child, patiently waiting her out until she complied. She thought of the last time she and Chuck had to go that route with Carolyn. But Carolyn’s stubbornness eventually wore them down. She planned on doing the same with Operation Anesthesia. It must be a family trait, she thought.

  A knock rattled the door. Beth walked to the remnants of the artist formally known as the china dish, which was still lying on the floor. She had thrown last night’s dinner against the wall, refusing to eat. It was part rebellion, but she also believed they might use the food to drug her again. She picked up the most-jagged piece she could find.

  Beth moved to the door, ready to strike with the broken dish. She pulled the door open, surprised at what she saw. A plump, middle-aged black woman with metallic silver hair. Everybody’s grandmother with a disarming smile. Not the armed trainer she expected. She lowered her weapon.

  The woman smiled at Beth—a disarming smile. “I’m Miss Rose. I heard you had moved in and I just wanted to be neighborly.”

  Beth was confused. Before her was the woman who prepared their meal when they were last at Jordan Plantation. She remembered how she made Carolyn smile.

  “Did you sleep well?” Miss Rose asked.

  Beth said nothing, remaining stone-faced.

  “You look tired, dear, I know how stressful the first couple of days in a new place can be.”

  Beth wasn’t sure what to make of the woman. Was she one of them, or a victim like her?

  Miss Rose seemed to read her mind, “I remember my first day when they brought me here, gosh, it must’ve been twenty years ago. I live right down the hall.”

  “I don’t get it,” Beth finally spoke, “I saw you in the dining room.”

  “I’m retired, but my job working as Dr. Jordan’s personal cook keeps me busy. Most of my children have grown.”

  “How many children did they force you to have?” Beth asked with hostility.

  “I have fifteen on the grounds,” Miss Rose remained cheerfully on message.

  “What do they do with the ones who don’t have CIPA—feed them to the dogs?”

  “I think you have it all wrong, dear. This is a place of benevolence. For those children who don’t meet the criteria, they find good homes in the outside. Dr. Jordan has set up an organization through his children’s hospital.”

  The lucky ones, Beth thought. “You call taking your children away from you, benevolence? I call it kidnapping!”

  “From what they told me, you were adopted yourself. And look how well you turned out.”

  Beth realized her aggressive tactic, while natural, wasn’t going to get her to Carolyn any quicker. She remembered Mrs. B’s pet phrase about attracting more flies with honey than vinegar. Her hunger/talking/sex strike, combined with breaking all the good china, was a strategy drenched in vinegar.

  Miss Rose smiled radiantly. “Why don’t we go for a walk, dear?”

  No time like the present for Beth’s new strategy of compliance. She tossed on the light sweater and jeans that her captors had left out for her—just her size—and followed Miss Rose, who waddled ahead in a floral print dress.

  They moved down the underground tunnels, passing numerous other “residents.” Miss Rose cheerily introduced Beth to a few of them. Beth expected the vacant looks of slaves, or hypnotic, proud-cult-member smiles, but they seemed like typical people trudging through the daily commute of life. Beth continued her new strategy, pleasantly responding with warm hellos. It was like the first day at a new school.

  They arrived at an elevator, which they rode upward. It was a different one from the first night, but Beth figured they still weren’t going to a chocolate factory. Instead of the English basement of the manor house, their destination was an octagonal gazebo somewhere on the extensive plantation grounds. It was surrounded by exquisite gardens and featured a panoramic view of the lake. Miss Rose grabbed Beth’s hand and helped her down the steps of the gazebo into a beautiful sunken garden. According to Miss Rose, it was the creation of someone called Lady Amrich who married the son of Quincy Jordan at the turn of the 19th century.

  After leaving the garden area, they entered a path that trailed through a thick, wooded area, eventually arriving in a meadow-like clearing. It looked to Beth like a typical park in New Canaan, where the pampered wives of the wealthy congregated in their designer workout suits. Beth witnessed parents playing with children under a perfect October sky. Young mothers pushing children in baby carriages. Some fathers were flying kites with toddler-aged children, and others kicked around a soccer ball in the open field. Older women sat on a bench and chatted, while lovers held hands.

  Welcome to Creepyville, she thought.

  Miss Rose kept going on and on about the perfect lifestyle at the plantation. It sure didn’t sound like the type
of slavery Beth learned about in history class. The kind that took place on these very grounds. The kind where if one listened closely, they could probably still hear the screams of slaves being mercilessly beaten with a leather strap.

  Beth didn’t notice any armed guards or disciplinary beatings. They had a much bigger weapon to keep the “residents” in line—the children. No parent was going to have any motivation to leave their children, and the more they had, the more roots they grew at the plantation. Beth had once read that most slaves didn’t find the violent beatings or public humiliation to be the most feared punishments on a plantation. Being sold away from their families was the cruelest.

  “This is our recreational area,” Miss Rose beamed. “We like to call it our little slice of utopia.”

  It was pretty obvious that Miss Rose had swallowed the whole batch of the Jordan Kool-Aid. Beth tried to bite her tongue, but unlike her daughter, she wasn’t immune from pain and could only hold it for so long, “There is no such thing! Communism was supposed to be the breeding ground for utopian society. But all that ever developed was a society that couldn’t think for itself, run by murderous dictators!”

  Miss Rose remained unflappable. “I didn’t mean to imply we’re any different than any other society. We raise our families, watch our children grow, make friends, go to church…”

  “Except one big difference—you’re enslaved.”

  Miss Rose scoffed, “My great-great grandfather arrived to America on a slave ship and remained in slavery until he was freed by Lincoln. And then he was enslaved by a society that considered people of color to be no different than your average mule. I can assure you this is nothing like slavery.”

  Beth lassoed her anger and climbed back on the honey wagon. “But don’t you miss your freedom?” she asked as pleasantly as she could muster.

  “My husband and I were a mixed-race couple. We had our lives disturbed, and often threatened, by simple-minded people who didn’t accept our relationship. On top of it, Jacque was a struggling jazz musician, so we rarely had money. We had trouble making sure our son, André, got proper food and nourishment. Freedom? I’ll take this life any day of the week and twice Sunday.”

  As she took in Miss Rose’s words, Beth observed some of the “residents” of Creepyville. They appeared to roam freely. But Beth was confident that armed security was hidden, ready to pounce. Most groups like this believed in the concept of certainty. Which was why they likely chose this spot—it was the perfect hideout. Five hundred acres packed away in the deep forest on the southern tip of Virginia. She remembered the Olympic bomber hiding out in the thick forests of nearby North Carolina for years before he was finally apprehended.

  Miss Rose escorted Beth into a diminutive, wooden structure near the park that she referred to as the Plantation Store. It reminded Beth of a typical New England country store. Miss Rose purchased spices for that night’s masterpiece from a happy cashier. Beth was offered a freshly baked cinnamon role and an ice tea, but she politely declined, even more concerned about being drugged after what she just witnessed.

  The next stop was the stone-built kitchen that Beth remembered from her original tour with Carolyn. Jordan had mentioned that it had burned down over ten times since the plantation’s inception. After Miss Rose dropped off her spices, and made a couple preparations for that night’s dinner, they returned underground to their “apartments.”

  Miss Rose’s apartment was three doors down and across the hall from Beth’s room. It looked similar, but had a homier feel, different from the hotel sterility of Beth’s room. It was full of framed photographs of her many children.

  Miss Rose appeared tired—she was no spring chicken, nor in top physical shape—and plopped onto her bed, wiping perspiration from her brow. Beth found Miss Rose to be an odd duck, but didn’t doubt her love for her children. She was a victim, just like she was. Just because she accepted the abuse didn’t lessen this fact.

  Beth’s eyes scanned the room, before landing on a similar chart as the one over her own bed. Except it was filled in. Beth now realized it was some sort of trophy to the number of CIPA children she sired. They were in alphabetical order starting with A—as if to keep the theme of order.

  André

  Bronson

  Calvin

  Deirdre

  Eddy

  And so on, until it reached eighteen. The obvious one’s caught Beth’s eye. She saw an opening and took a shot, “Calvin is no longer here on the plantation, is he?”

  Miss Rose was caught off guard and her voice shook, “Why do you say that?”

  “Because I met Calvin. He gave me this,” she displayed the necklace with the medallion of the red rose. Now she understood that Rose was his name. “He tried to help Carolyn stay away from this utopia, as you call it. He must’ve forgotten how great this place is, or maybe he forgot to wash his brain that day.”

  Miss Rose’s face changed, night-and-day different. She put her finger to her mouth to indicate quiet, and mouthed silently, “They’re listening.”

  She then reached under the back of her flowered dress. Beth wasn’t sure what she was doing, she seemed like she was struggling to scratch an itch in a hard-to-reach spot. Beth was about to offer help, when Miss Rose’s arm reappeared, revealing a small chip. For some reason Beth knew right away that it was a listening device.

  They made intense eye contact, mother to mother. Beth suddenly realized they had similar thoughts on freedom. Miss Rose was also doing the honey over vinegar thing, maybe for twenty years.

  Beth nodded her head to indicate she understood.

  “Is he okay?” Miss Rose mouthed.

  “I don’t know.” Beth lied, not having the heart to tell her, her eyes shifting away. She forced a smile, but could tell Miss Rose saw right through it. She certainly didn’t have the same acting skills as Miss Rose.

  “How did they escape?” Beth whispered.

  Miss Rose returned the chip back into her back and smiled. The smile said everything. She helped them escape.

  Intermission was over and the play resumed. Beth thanked her for a lovely day and made plans to attend church with her on Saturday night. Then Miss Rose left to cook a meal for Dr. Jordan.

  Perhaps she would cook up some flies and honey.

  Chapter 62

  Dr. Jordan always liked to be home the first few days after a new recruit moved in. Sometimes unexpected problems occurred that needed to be nipped in the bud before they became bigger problems. Taking a child or parents from the outside world and implanting them in the culture of Operation Anesthesia was similar to transplanting an organ, a certain amount of rejection was likely to occur. But Jordan was always able to carefully massage their transition and they eventually accepted their new life.

  But André, Bronson, and Calvin Rose didn’t accept it. And at first glance, the Whitcombs appeared to have as much fight as anyone who arrived at the plantation. And not just of the physical variety, but also a rare mental toughness. A trait Jordan witnessed in many childhood cancer patients who willed themselves to live years beyond any timeline doctors arrogantly put on them.

  Jordan blamed Stipe for the debacle with the brothers Rose. Over time, Stipe’s arrogance had led to a sharp decline in the plantation’s security. His personal involvement dwindled and became too reliant on technology, especially the lethal fence surrounding the property. Stipe pointed to historical success as validation. But Jordan knew that past achievement never guaranteed future success, and he wasn’t going to let Stipe’s indiscretions taint his work.

  After Miss Rose finished serving him another splendid meal, he retreated to his office to personally review the security video and audiotapes. His mother always ingrained in him that if you want to do something right, you must do it yourself. His target of focus was Miss Rose, whom he was sure contributed to the escape of her children. A big part of him hoped he was wrong. Someone who could cook a rack of lamb like that was not easily replaced.

  Jorda
n focused on her interaction with his new recruit, Beth Whitcomb. It wasn’t a coincidence that he’d instructed Miss Rose to take the lead in welcoming Beth. Beth was predictably feisty in the beginning, but then suddenly turned agreeable. Jordan was suspicious of such a quick acceptance. It usually took months to break a recruit, and with Beth’s iron will he expected even longer. Another detail Stipe would’ve missed.

  When they returned to Miss Rose’s apartment, he got the money-shot. Beth’s mere mention of Calvin made Rose drop her guard, and in essence, her charade. His suspicions were confirmed.

  Jordan congratulated himself for being right…again. Although, he also felt saddened by Miss Rose’s betrayal. He had worked closely with her for so many years that he thought of her as family. But he had learned from experience that it is usually those closest to you who can hurt you the worst.

  He would take care of this problem in the correct manner; he would take care of it himself.

  Chapter 63

  The woman continued to stare at Carolyn like she’d seen a ghost.

  The man spoke for his frazzled wife, “I’m Ken Kiely and this is my wife Barbara. We’ve lived here for thirty-five years and your daughter looks a lot like a little girl who used to live in this house.”

  “My name is Dana Boulanger, and while I’d love to take credit for her, she’s not my daughter. Carolyn is actually my niece. She is the daughter of my adopted sister, Beth. She took the name Beth Boulanger until she married, and then became Beth Whitcomb. But I learned recently that her birth name was Beth Pennington.”

  “Oh my God,” Barbara stuttered in amazement, unable to take her eyes off of Carolyn. “She looks exactly like her mother did.”

  “That’s what they tell me,” Carolyn added with a shrug.

  “Would you like to come to our home for some lunch?” Ken asked, understanding that this visit was no coincidence.