Schakowski jumped up and grabbed his jacket all in one motion. The two detectives bolted from the room. Eric decided to follow in his car. The clown and the cowboy had robbed Jenna. Maybe they had kidnapped her too.
Chapter 10
Monday, Oct. 30, 8:45 a.m.
Reverend Carmichael kept his morning service short. He had more important things on his mind today than leading his congregation. He figured by setting a good example and providing an ideal environment, he made it possible for them to live a spiritual life without heavy-handed guidance. For the next week or so they would be in God’s hands while he kept a close watch on Jenna. As anxious as he was to get down to the clinic, Carmichael felt compelled to stick to his morning routine so he wouldn’t arouse any curiosity.
Usually he was up at six, followed by an hour of Bible reading and prayer. Then breakfast at seven in the dining hall crowded with rough wooden picnic tables, amidst the women and children who gathered around to ask questions, present him with homemade gifts, or simply enjoy his company for the few minutes that they could. Morning service was held at eight in the chapel. Attendance was not required, but few ever missed it. He had noticed Rebecca’s absence for the second day in a row and decided to make time to see her. Perhaps her pregnancy was giving her morning difficulties. Some women seemed to suffer horribly while carrying out the Lord’s work, and others never had a sick day. It was the one aspect of pregnancy he had never been able to diagnose or properly control.
Morning chores were next. A rotation chart was posted in the main hallway and, even though his name was not on it, Carmichael always did his share. Today he went with Faith and the crew into the fields to pick the last of the second potato crop. Anyone who wanted to eat had to help gather and prepare food. It was the way he was raised. There were no exceptions. Even his father, who never did a single other household chore, would slice vegetables or grate cheese if his mother couldn’t locate one of the girls to help. His father, after the first or second martini, was amenable to most things. After three or four, he became unpredictable, sometimes giddy and rambunctious to the point of embarrassment, and other times short-tempered and abusive. When they were teenagers, he’d encouraged his children to drink with him. And they had. Three out of six of his kids had become alcoholics before they were old enough to drink legally.
Carmichael pushed his father out of his mind, not wanting to be distracted by old emotions. He had stopped abusing his body with drugs and alcohol long ago when he renewed his faith in God, but by then his life had been shattered, and it was no one’s fault but his own. He would not let himself think of the accident, not even to ask forgiveness, not today.
Carmichael put down his potato digger and stood, stretching his hands toward the crisp blue sky. “Praise God for this day!” he shouted.
“Praise God!” the women sang out after him.
“Keep me in your heart. I’ll see you at the noon meal.”
He hurried through the greenhouse and into the kitchen to drop off the fruits of his labor. His lab and the greatest challenge of his medical career awaited him.
* * *
Jenna tried to swallow, but her tongue felt as hot and dry as August. Imagining a tall cold glass of water brought tears to her eyes. She eased her shoulders forward and glanced at the room again. Her head felt heavy and wobbly, as if a big rock were rolling around in her skull. She wanted to drift back into never-never land, but she was awake now, or at least she thought she was awake. The previous few days seemed like a bad dream that had gone from disturbing to nightmarish.
The tiny room was lined with smooth, gray tiles. The walls, floor, and ceiling were all the same, the blankness broken only by a single door and a strange dark window that she was sure did not lead outside. The bed seemed like standard hospital issue, the monitors and assorted equipment, vaguely familiar. If not for the lack of a television, it could have been a room in a hospital. Except it wasn’t.
The silence frightened her almost as much as the wide leather straps pinning down her arms and legs. Occasionally Jenna would hear a small thump or scrape above her, but there seemed to be no life outside the walls. She almost wished her captors would come back, do whatever they planned, and get it over with. The waiting and not knowing was an agony unlike anything she had ever experienced.
What do they want? Why me? The questions echoed in her mind over and over. None of it made sense. How had she ended up here? She had a fleeting image of a dark-haired man in a suit, but the image blurred and slipped away before she could focus on it. Was the man in the suit a doctor? Why did she think that?
Jenna had trouble thinking clearly. She assumed the IV line in her right arm, which she could hardly bear to look at, had to be pumping her with a drug that dulled her senses as well as the pain along her left side that came and went. What had they done to her? A thin gray blanket covered her body, so she couldn’t see her injuries. Her shoulder hurt the worst, as if it were broken, but all she could see when she twisted her head to the side was the white of bandages. Had they dropped her or beat her when she was unconscious? Blurry images of a wet ditch floated in and out. Had she been in a car wreck? It seemed as if a doctor had come to help. Had it all been a dream? What if she’d been raped? Jenna didn’t feel violated, but she didn’t trust her perceptions.
The last thing she remembered clearly was running with Eric. They’d made a date, then something had happened to her. Eric must have thought she stood him up. Jenna fought back tears. He was the sweetest guy she’d ever met, and he probably thought she was a complete nutcase. But what did it matter now? She was drugged, injured, and restrained, and couldn’t remember how any of it happened. Despair washed over her. How in the hell would she ever get out?
Except for her IV stand, the monitors, and a small wooden stool, the room was barren. Even if she did manage to get free of the straps, Jenna expected to find the door locked. That strange dark window was probably Plexiglas or something unbreakable. She could almost picture faces behind it, old men with cold hard eyes, watching, waiting. Jenna shivered. She could feel their eyes on her skin. She was a bug under a microscope, and she would die in this room.
Silent tears rolled down her temples and pooled in the pockets of her ears. She was helpless to wipe them away or stop the flow. Would anyone even miss her? Her mother, of course, would worry for a while, then get back to her own busy life. Katrice would try to contact her through the psychic world, then get sidetracked and forget her. Otherwise, Jenna figured her disappearance would go largely unnoticed. Would anyone even report her missing? She’d acted so strangely after the robbery, talking about quitting her job and moving, people might think she’d just taken off.
Jenna groaned out loud. In July she’d left on vacation without telling anyone where she was going or when she’d be back. Except for Dottie. Jenna had asked her to water the petunias and geraniums on her patio. Would Dottie notice the dying flowers this time? Probably not. It was late October, and her perennials had only a few good weeks left anyway.
Why, why, why? The words bounced around in her brain like an echo. Jenna thought it would be easier to accept her fate if she understood it. Then again, knowing might be more than she could bear. What if they planned to keep her for a long time? Treat her like a rat in a lab experiment, infecting her with a little of this and a little of that? Jenna shuddered. She’d rather die than be degraded or tortured. She’d find a way to kill herself before she let them use her.
Then it hit her, what they wanted and why: organs. They wanted her kidneys or lungs or, God no, maybe even her heart would be cut out and given to someone else. Her body would be violated and left to die so that some rich stranger could live. Was it the bald, skinny guy with the beat up face who needed the new heart? Who was he anyway?
The image disappeared as quickly as it came. The idea that they would cut out her heart lingered. She couldn’t stop thinking about some bastard walking around with her heart. Jenna trembled with rage. Action-packed sce
nes played in her mind. Getting free from her straps and leaping on the doctor when he entered the room. Rising up from the operating table, seizing the scalpel and stabbing them both. Given a chance, she would fight for her life. Even if it meant her own death. She would not let them take little pieces of her for themselves.
It was impossible to stay angry. The drug made her mind float from one thought to another. She drifted off for a while, then was suddenly awake again. Hours seemed to have passed. Why weren’t they coming to check on her? How long had it really been?
Time seemed to have stopped. With only horror for company, each minute seemed like an eternity. The painkiller made it worse, slowing her brain so that each thought was a struggle. How long had she been awake? How long had she been in the room? What day was it by now? The drug was also a blessing. Without it, the confinement of her arms and legs would have been unbearable. She would have driven herself crazy struggling against the bindings.
Jenna closed her eyes, unable to look at the blank grayness of the room any longer. She pictured herself on a beach somewhere with a brilliant blue sky, a warm sun, and a cool breeze. She listened for the rhythm of the ocean, the call of a seagull, the rumble of a fishing boat leaving the bay. Her body relaxed, and the afternoon stretched out in a gentle daydream.
“How are you feeling?” The voice was soft, but the suddenness of it startled her. Jenna’s eyes flew open. A dark-haired man wearing a surgical mask was at her bedside. All she could see of his face were gray eyes, which seemed surprisingly kind. He wore a cream-colored sweater and black wool pants and did not match her image of a kidnapper.
Confused and afraid to trust her perceptions, Jenna demanded, “Who are you?” Her voice betrayed her. It was scratchy and weak and still desperate for water.
“It’s better for both of us if you don’t know.” He set down a tray and patted the back of her hand. Jenna flinched, unable to pull away. “Please don’t be afraid.” His eyes pleaded with her to believe him. “I’m a man of God as well as a doctor.”
“I need water.”
“Ask and you shall receive.” He smiled and turned to pour from a pitcher beside the bed. His reference to God failed to comfort her. Son of Sam claimed God spoke to him through a dog. In fact, God was pretty popular with psychos.
“What do you want with me?” The water could wait; she had to know.
“It is not I who wants something of you. God has given us all a purpose in life, and now he calls upon you to do his work. Can you sit up to drink this?” He held the water over her chest, eyes twinkling with amusement.
In that instant Jenna hated him. Hated his power over her—that she should need his help with a simple sip of water. She wouldn’t let pride get in the way. She wanted that cool liquid. She needed it to live.
She eased her head forward, letting the queasiness pass in stages, then opened her lips. He gently poured little sips into her mouth until she’d swallowed the whole glass. Jenna cleared her throat and asked again, “Why am I here? What do you want?”
He seemed uncertain. “I’ve debated at length about how much to tell you. First, let me put your mind at ease. I don’t intend to harm you in any way. Second, if things go according to plan, you won’t remember anything about your stay here, which should be a relief to you. For now, let’s just say I plan to borrow some tissue.”
“You’re going to cut me open?”
* * *
“Not really. It’s a very small amount of tissue, and it won’t be painful, I promise.” Carmichael used his most soothing voice. He’d meant to ease her fears, not escalate them. He’d forgotten how easily non-medical people were alarmed by invasive procedures. His church members had such faith in him he rarely had to worry about bedside manners.
“Don’t bullshit me!” Spit flew out of the girl’s mouth.
Stunned by her vehemence, Carmichael was speechless. She should have been more sedated. He would have to increase her dosage of Versed. He tried again, more firmly this time. “As long as you’re in my care, you will not be harmed. The best thing you can do for yourself is stay calm and let your wounds heal.”
He reached for the bread and apple butter sandwich he’d brought and held it to her lips. “You need to eat to keep up your strength and fight infection.”
“I’d rather die.” She turned her head away.
What a feisty one, he thought with grudging admiration. She reminded him of his wife, Anne. She’d been a spitfire too, the only woman he’d never been able to dominate.
“I won’t let that happen,” Carmichael said, gently stroking her chin. “I’ll just add a nutritional supplement to your IV line, if necessary. You might as well eat and enjoy what pleasure you can.”
“Why? Why me?” Jenna cried out, her face red with fury.
Carmichael realized the poor girl must be terrified under all that anger. He wished he could explain to her why she’d been chosen; it would probably make her feel safer. He’d promised Elizabeth that Jenna would never know she had a sister. The less she knew, the safer it would be to let her go.
The memory-impairing drugs were not foolproof, and this girl seemed to have a high tolerance for them. She had already surprised him by coming out from under the ketamine much sooner than he’d expected, and now she was more alert and hostile than she should be. The fall from the back of the van had given him a sprained forearm and two bruised knees. Only the fact that he’d landed on Jenna had kept him from serious injury. Carmichael had no intention of underestimating this patient again.
“Do you want the sandwich or not?” he asked softly. After a few seconds, Jenna turned back. She’s beautiful, Carmichael realized. Although Elizabeth was attractive, Jenna, with almost the same features, was stunning. He reached to touch her hair, its long honey-colored waves forming a halo around her face.
“What is it?” she asked, pulling her head away.
At first Carmichael didn’t know what she meant, it had taken her so long to respond. Then he realized she was asking about the sandwich. He found it amusing that it mattered to her.
“Homemade apple butter and bread. The simple and nutritious food the good Lord meant for us to eat.” He held the offering to her mouth again. Jenna leaned forward and tore off a hunk, chewing slowly at first, eyes narrowed suspiciously, then ravenously reaching for another bite when she realized it was exactly what he claimed it to be.
Carmichael watched her with pleasure. Her skin glowed with the pinkish tan of outdoor exercise and her eyes danced with life despite the drugs and the injuries. He admired her muscle tone and vitality. What a great baby maker she would be! Too bad Elizabeth insisted on carrying the child herself. Jenna seemed so much sturdier, so much more likely to have a healthy, ten-pounder than Liz.
“Water.” Jenna grunted around a mouthful of bread
He lifted the glass and let her drink, but decided he would have to teach her some manners if she wanted him to be her friend. “You should say please.”
Jenna let out a short, harsh laugh, causing her to choke and cough repeatedly. Carmichael watched her silently, unable to help. Finally the spasm passed. When she spoke, her words were slurred from the drugs, but the hostility was clear. “Put me back where you found me, and I’ll say thank you. Until then, you can go fuck yourself.”
The words stung. Carmichael thought they had reached an understanding. Earlier in his life, he would have slapped Jenna for her disrespect. But the need to punish women physically had faded in the years since he’d given up drugs and alcohol. He’d promised God never to hurt anyone again. But he couldn’t let the insult go. He had treated her civilly and expected the same in return. There were many ways to alter behavior and win someone’s respect.
“I’ll be back in a few minutes.” He ignored her curses and strode out of the small room. Some women were so noisy during labor that he’d designed a small, soundproof room in the underground clinic just for that purpose. Zeke had changed the knob to a lock-and-key system the day before they p
icked up Jenna.
Carmichael moved quickly across the combination birth/surgery area to a supply cabinet where an assortment of painkillers, antibiotics, anesthesia, and synthetic hormones were kept. He intended to give her some Valium, then try to feed her again. It was important that Jenna eat. Sometimes when women didn’t eat properly their bodies didn’t ovulate. He also needed to give her another injection of clomophergonal, a powerful follicle-stimulating hormone that hadn’t been approved yet by the FDA. Every extra egg Jenna produced would increase Elizabeth’s chance of becoming pregnant. If she produced extra oocytes. There was a possibility Jenna would have a bad reaction to the fertility drug and need to be taken off it. Clomophergonal was the most powerful synthetic hormone he’d ever tested. But the chance seemed unlikely considering Jenna’s tolerance for depressants.
The girl was silent when he re-entered the room, but as soon as he reached for the IV bag she started shouting questions. “What is that? Why are you drugging me? How do you know I’m not allergic to it?”
“Relax, dear.” Carmichael emptied the Valium into the IV line. “It’s only a mild tranquilizer. I know you’re not allergic to it because I’ve given you plenty already. Without this drug, you’d be going crazy in here. I want you to be as comfortable as possible.”
“Ha!” It was more of a grunt than a word. “If you want me to be comfortable”—her eyes started to swim—“let me keep my tissue”—her voice got woozy—“and go home.”
Carmichael smiled. He’d thought Anne was one in a million, but Jenna was so much like her it made him ache. Jenna hadn’t once begged for mercy or complained about pain, yet he knew her collarbone still hurt, even with the drugs. What pride! He lifted her gown and rolled Jenna up on one side. With practiced fingers, Carmichael dabbed her with isopropyl alcohol, plunged the hormone hypodermic into her smooth white buttock, and rolled her back. Her eyes flickered wildly.
“Just an antibiotic to keep you from getting infections,” Carmichael said, trying to ignore the rush of blood to his groin produced by his glimpse of Jenna’s muscular glutes. She looked away, refusing to meet his eyes.
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