by Phil Swann
Ben went across the room and pulled a chair up next to the woman’s bed. “Hi, my name’s Ben. That’s Sarah over there.”
The woman looked at Ben but didn’t reply.
“Can you speak? Are you hurt? Sarah’s a doctor.”
She licked her lips and put her hand on her forehead and rubbed.
“What’s your name, ma’am?”
Suddenly the woman reached out, took Ben’s hand, and began to sob. “I think I’m…I’m…Beatrice Whitt. Where I am? Please, help me.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
“Ellie. Where’s Ellie?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t know any Ellie,” Ben said, trying to calm the woman.
“Ellie…the lyre. Where’s Ellie? Who are you?”
“My name is Ben.”
“Get Ellie, please,” she cried, squeezing Ben’s hand and trying to sit up.
“Uh…Sarah? Could you come over here, please?”
Sarah threw bloodied bandages into a basket beside Timon’s bed and went to Ben.
“This is Sarah,” Ben said. “Sarah, this is Beatrice.”
Sarah put her hand on Beatrice’s forehead, causing her to relax back into the bed. She looked into the woman’s eyes with a small flashlight. “She’s been drugged.”
“With what?”
“I don’t know, but her pupils are the size of basketballs.”
“She keeps calling for someone named Ellie, and that she’s a liar.”
“Beatrice, are you having trouble breathing? Do you feel nauseous?”
Beatrice stared at Sarah but said nothing.
“Can you give her something?” asked Ben.
“Who knows what she’s got in her already. See if you can find some water.”
Ben went to the metal cabinets in the corner of the room. He found an unopened case of bottled water, tore off the plastic, grabbed a bottle, and returned to Sarah. “Here you go,” he said, handing Sarah the water.
“Here, Beatrice, have a drink.”
Sarah held the bottle as Beatrice sat up, took a sip, and then fell back onto the bed.
“Please, get Ellie…the lyre…call Ellie.”
“She sounds British,” Ben said.
“She sounds high as a kite,” Sarah replied, massaging Beatrice’s temples.
Beatrice shut her eyes, and her breathing became steady and deep.
After a moment, Ben said, “I think she’s out.”
Sarah pulled the blanket over the woman’s arms. “She’s going to need to sleep it off—whatever it is.”
“And Timon?”
Sarah shrugged her shoulders. “I’ve done all I can.”
Ben walked across the room and put his ear against the door.
“Is someone out there?”
Ben nodded as he scanned the rest of the room.
“What are you looking for?”
“Another way out,” Ben said, his voice barely above a whisper. “It’s just a box—a room built inside that other room. It’s like it’s some kind of—”
Sarah saw his expression change as if he’d solved a riddle. “Some kind of what?”
“Holy hell. Of course.”
“What?”
“I know where we are,” Ben said.
“Where?”
“Exactly where Buchanan said: the most secure place in town.”
»»•««
Ellie’s eyes popped open the instant the wheels hit the tarmac.
“Have a nice sleep, Dr. Scotes?” Stewart asked, looking refreshed and well rested.
“Are we there?” Ellie answered, stretching her arms above her head.
“Welcome to Music City, USA.” Stewart lifted a phone from the bulkhead. “Nigel, lovely flight. Do you know the procedure for clearing customs?” Stewart looked out the window as he listened. “I understand. Thank you, Nigel.”
“The pilot?”
“Yes, Nigel, crackin’ bloke, we went to Eton together. He says we should stay on the aircraft. He informed the tower of our arrival, and they’ve dispatched a customs official to meet us on the plane.”
“Certainly beats flying coach,” Ellie said, rubbing her eyes.
“I took the liberty of hiring us a car. It’ll be waiting when we disembark.”
“You’d make an excellent concierge, Stewart.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
Ellie smiled.
“Nashville, Tennessee. I’ve always wanted to come here. Do you like country and western music, Dr. Scotes?”
“I don’t have a strong feeling one way or the other. From an anthological and ethnological standpoint, it has a very interesting history.”
“When I was a lad, I used to listen to the Grand Ole Opry over shortwave every Saturday. Little Jimmy Dickens was the host and I would—”
“Stewart,” Ellie interrupted, “we’re here to find Bea.”
“Of course, Dr. Scotes.”
The cabin door opened, and a young man, who Ellie supposed was Nigel, stepped out and opened the hatch, deploying the stairs. The customs official was waiting.
“Howdy, folks,” the round and jovial man from US Customs and Border Protection said, ducking his head as he entered the aircraft. “Welcome to America.”
“Thank you,” Stewart replied, handing his passport to the agent.
Ellie handed her passport to the man as well but said nothing.
“Y’all from England, huh? I guess you folks are connected to the movie too.”
Ellie looked at Stewart. She started to correct him, but Stewart cut her off. “You get a lot of people in the film industry here in Nashville?”
“Yes, sir,” the agent answered. “Mostly Hollywood folk, so I don’t see a lot of them. Though some of us ’round here do think California’s another country.” The man laughed. “Naw, I see the occasional actor from across the pond, as you people say, but not too many producer types like you folks. But that’s changing. Nashville’s becoming quite the popular locale for movies. We’re all real happy about it too. Good for jobs, if you get my meaning.”
“I do, sir,” Stewart replied.
“How long will you folks be staying with us?”
Ellie finally spoke, “Not sure, no more than a few days, I would think.”
The man made a couple of notations on a clipboard and then stamped both passports. “Here you go,” he said, handing them back their documents. “You folks heading over to the set tonight like the others?”
“The others?” Ellie said, glancing at Stewart.
“Yeah, like the folks who arrived a few hours ago. I asked if they were going to a hotel, and they said they were heading right to the set. I told them to be careful, that place can be tricky to find. But they said they knew where it was and it wouldn’t be a problem. I was kind of worried about the older lady, though. She looked pretty well spent from the flight.”
Beatrice! “You know, we’re not as confident with our directions. Can you help us?”
“Sure. Just get on I-40 out here and head west. Stay on that road through town. Once you’re on the other side of Nashville, look for the Briley Parkway exit, then take a right on Centennial Boulevard. You make it that far, you’ll see it, it’s a big ol’ thing. Besides, you people probably have lights up all over the place…for the movie, I mean.”
Stewart made a quick note of the directions and nodded to Ellie.
“Thank you, that’s so helpful. One other thing, you said there were others on the plane?”
“Yes, a young man and young woman. You people don’t know each other?”
“Oh, you know how the movie business is, a lot of chefs in the kitchen.”
The agent laughed. “Got it. No different in my business, ma’am. Everybody’s a boss. Well, y’all have a safe evening and a very pleasant stay in our country, ya hear?”
Stewart answered, “We hear.”
Once the agent was off the plane, Ellie said, “That was real ballsy, Stewart.”
“What, ma’am?”
“You lied to a customs official.”
“No, I didn’t. I never said we were with a movie company—he did.”
Ellie smiled.
“Doctor, I just input those directions into my phone.”
“And?”
“Well, it’s quite disconcerting.”
“Why?”
“It says we’re going to the Tennessee State Prison.”
»»•««
“The Tennessee State Prison!” Sarah exclaimed. “Ben, are you sure?”
“The iron doors, rusty catwalk, yes, I’m sure.” Ben walked around the perimeter of the room and tapped on the wall. “This place has been abandoned for decades. It’s off limits to everybody unless you rent it to make a movie, then the State of Tennessee will happily oblige for a price. I wrote a song for a film shooting out here a few years ago and was invited onto the set.”
“Were you in here?”
“No. I stayed in the prison yard. Sarah, this place is enormous, practically a—”
“A what?” Sarah asked, noticing the change of expression on Ben’s face.
“Son of a bitch, he’s making a movie,” Ben muttered.
“He’s what?”
“He’s making a movie—the lights, the voices, this façade of a room, all of it—he’s making a movie. That’s how he got in this place.”
“How can you know that for sure?”
“Because Paul told me that’s what Buchanan was doing, opening up an entertainment company to make records, music videos, and…to produce movies.”
“Who’s Paul?”
“My publisher. A year or so ago we played golf with Buchanan. That’s where I met him. That’s what Buchanan was referring to back at the house. I cleaned his clock.”
“Ben,” Sarah said, taking a step closer to him. “When was that? Exactly?”
Ben thought for a second, closed his eyes, and sat down on the bed. The words were barely audible when he dropped his face in his hands. “The day before Tom was killed.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Grey paced about barefoot wearing only slacks and a T-shirt. He held a Heineken in one hand and a file folder in the other. His eyes looked tired but focused. It had taken him less than an hour to transform his small room at the Music City Best Western into a personal command center. Neat rows of index cards lined the floor creating a precise hour-by-hour timeline of Jackson’s whereabouts leading up to the assassination. A mountain of file folders covered the bed, and tiny yellow Stick’em notes were plastered on the TV screen. To some, the room might have looked like chaos. To Grey, it was perfection bordering on art.
It’s here, he thought, draining the last bit of liquid from the bottle. I just need to find it. Grey put the empty bottle down and continued stalking around the bed, eyeing the folders like a lion circling its prey. Someone slipped scopolamine to Jackson, but where? And when? The timeline is denying the facts. Why? Where is it wrong? Grey gave his internal monologue voice. “Jackson didn’t know he was going to meet the president until Ben Lambros called him and told him he’d gotten him the interview—that was well after two in the morning. He should have been slipped the drug after that, but Dr. Bhatti’s report says the drug had metabolized in Jackson’s liver, meaning he got it at least sixteen hours before his death. That puts ingestion well before midnight, and that doesn’t work.”
Grey dropped the folder on the bed and rubbed his face. “So where was Jackson sixteen hours before?” He went to the floor and retrieved an index card. “Lambros’ party. Come on, Pryce, you knew that.”
Grey put the index card back in the timeline and continued pacing, going over the same narrative again. He waved his arms as if he were relating the facts to a jury. He picked up a file, glanced at it, and discarded it. He did the same thing with three index cards: retrieve, glance, discard. It always played out the same; the timeline didn’t jive.
“Jackson didn’t know he was going to meet the president when he was at Lambros’ party,” Grey said, falling into the chair. “Why dope him then? Wouldn’t you wait until you’re sure your patsy was actually going to be where you needed him to be? It doesn’t make sense unless—” Grey suddenly stopped talking. A chill went down the back of his neck, and the hair on his arms stood up. He leaped from the chair to the bed in one move. He riffled through the files until he found the one he was looking for and quickly scanned it. He dropped the file, jumped up, and went to his laptop. His heart pounded as he searched the hard drive. He found the folder he was looking for, the one titled Interviews, located the specific file, and clicked on it. The computer screen went dark before lighting up again with an image of Ben Lambros’ face frozen on the media player. Grey took a deep breath and tapped play.
“I met D.J., I mean Mr. Jackson, about ten years ago. He was writing a piece about—”
Grey fast-forwarded the recording.
“–He was just a normal—”
He fast-forwarded it again.
“When did Mr. Jackson ask you to get him a meeting with the president?”
“Last night at the party.”
“Was he in the habit of asking for favors?”
“No. This was the first time he ever asked me for anything. But I owed him.”
“Go on.”
“A few years ago there was a party. There were lots of famous people there. Powerful people. It was crazy…alcohol, drugs, sex. Some of the girls turned out to be underage. One of them OD’ed. She was sixteen. The shit hit the fan. Everyone was brought in for questioning. It was all over the news. People lost their jobs, or their deals, a few even went to jail, it was a mess. I was at the party, but D.J. had friends and was able to keep my name out of it. I wasn't even questioned.”
“Jackson threatened to expose you if you didn't get him a meeting?”
“No, it wasn't like that! D.J. never would have threatened me. Jesus, this doesn't make any sense! He wouldn't hurt anybody!”
“Relax, Mr. Lambros. Would you like some water?”
“The man I've known for ten years would never have done this. I don't understand!”
“Let's talk about something else. You and the president didn’t get along—”
Grey stopped the recording and fell back in his chair. “I never asked the question.”
»»•««
Ellie and Stewart sat in their rental car and gazed upon the gigantic gothic edifice before them. Constructed from heavy stone masonry and topped with concertino wire, the structure looked both ancient and distinctly European. Majestic spires and flying buttresses stretched up to the sky. Cathedral-like windows, supported by ornate tracery and pointed arches, adorned an imposing wall that jutted off both sides of the main building. It was, for all practical purposes, a medieval castle built to awe, intimidate, and to keep those residing within its formidable walls within its formidable walls.
“Dr. Scotes, what’s Ms. Whitt doing in there?”
“I don’t know, Stewart. Just when I thought this couldn’t get any weirder.”
The customs agent was right, there were lights. Tall scaffolding erected just beyond the prison wall and fitted with dozens of high-intensity halogen lamps bathed the fortress in a white, ethereal glow. Ellie rolled down her window, and the smell of freshly cut grass and wild honeysuckle rushed into the car. Under different circumstances the aroma might have been pleasant. But as it stood, the humid, near swampy night air only added to the eeriness of the entire setting.
“This might be the creepiest place I’ve ever seen…and I’m from Scotland,” Stewart said, following Ellie’s lead and rolling down the window.
“It’s just a building, Stewart. Nothing more.”
Stewart held up his phone and read: “‘The Tennessee State Penitentiary opened 12 February 1898. It sits along the Cockrill Bend of the Cumberland River, northwest of Nashville. It consists of eight hundred single-occupancy cells in two cell blocks. It has an administration building, warehouses, a hospital, and two factory structures.
’ It says the land around us was once a working farm. The prison closed in 1992 because of ‘cruel and inhumane conditions.’”
“I hear something,” Ellie said, cocking her head sideways.
“Probably the river, it’s just over that bank.”
“Get down,” Ellie ordered, putting her hand on Stewart’s shoulder.
Stewart reacted without hesitation, folding his six-feet-five frame into the seat.
Ellie ducked but kept her eyes on the headlights coming down the service road running parallel to the prison. She sat up just as the 4 x 4 pickup truck sped by.
Stewart unwound himself and exhaled a long breath.
“It appears the action is down that way,” Ellie said, turning on the ignition.
“Where are we going, ma’am?”
“You ever wanted to work in the movie business, Stewart?”
“Not especially.”
Ellie drove down the dark service road from where the pickup truck had just come. She drove with purpose, never so much as tapping the brakes.
“Ma’am, are you sure this is a good—”
“If it’s one thing I learned in the field, Stewart: when you’re somewhere you shouldn’t be…best to act like you belong there.”
“Does that really work?”
“Almost never,” Ellie answered, not taking her eyes off the road.
Stewart swallowed hard.
“Look, the worst thing that can happen is we’re busted for being fans trying to sneak onto a movie set. They’ll just toss us out. But sitting back there in the car makes us look suspicious and ominous. We don’t want to look suspicious and ominous, Stewart.”
“No, ma’am. I guess we don’t.”
“For some reason, Beatrice is inside those walls, and I intend to find out why. So, we’re going to pretend to be movie producers just like that customs agent at the airport said we were.”
“Movie producers? But…what do movie producers do?”
“Hell if I know.” Ellie shrugged. “Just follow my lead.”
Ellie saw lights up ahead and slowed. She turned the car into a fenced entranceway where a security guard was sitting in a folding chair reading a magazine. The fence was tall and intimidating, definitely a part of the prison but still outside the thick brick wall of the stronghold.
