by L. C. Shaw
What is he talking about? “Pedigree? I’m not a dog.”
He smiles again. “No, Maya, you are more like a brood mare.”
“Go to hell, you bastard.” Spittle flies from my mouth.
He looks at me with no change in expression.
“I’m getting out of here. I’m going home. This is insane!” I rant.
He withdraws from the room without another word, and then the men arrive. They push me down on the bed and strap me into a white vest.
“You’re making this harder than it has to be,” one whispers in my ear.
I scream until my throat is raw. I can no longer move my arms, and the more I struggle, the tighter everything becomes. I don’t know when I finally fall into an exhausted sleep. When I awake, he is there again. Watching. Calm. Cold.
“The sooner you learn to accept things, the better.”
“I’ll never accept being held prisoner. Why have you done this?” I croak, my voice barely audible.
“In good time. In good time you will know the part you will play, but not quite yet.”
“I need to move. Take these off.”
He frowns. “You must learn the proper way to address me. You may request but never demand.” He stands up and hovers over me. “Do you understand?”
My stomach tightens. I nod my head.
He sits back down. “Good.”
“Would you please take this vest off me?”
“Not yet. When I believe you can be trusted, then I will have it removed.”
I lie there still restrained, while he sits a few feet away staring at me. I fear I shall never see my family or anyone else ever again.
Chapter Eighteen
THE ROAD NARROWED AND BECAME EVEN MORE BUMPY and pothole ridden. Taylor winced as the truck bounced up and down, and her head bumped against the roof.
“Sorry ’bout that. Almost there.”
She winced and put a hand on her stomach.
He gave her a worried look. “Are you okay?”
She shook her head. “Just nervous. I’ve had two miscarriages, and so I need to be monitored closely. It’s also why I need the progesterone shots for the first eight weeks—it helps decrease the chance of anything going wrong. This is not the best time for me to be stressed out.”
His hands tightened on the wheel. “I wish Malcolm had told me.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t understand what was going on in his mind. Truthfully, if those guys with guns hadn’t shown up, I’m not sure I would have believed any of it was real. I just want to find Jeremy, whoever he is, and get some answers.”
The scenery began to change as civilization faded away. Everything was a green blur. Never had she been in the middle of so many evergreens. As they crested the top of the hill, she saw what looked like a brown rectangle nestled in the patchwork of forest. As they got closer, a small A-frame log cabin appeared. The enormous trees dwarfed the dwelling, and Taylor shivered, thinking of old horror movies involving isolated houses. Jack pulled into the gravel drive.
They walked up to the door, and Jack took the key from his pocket and opened it.
Beau began running around the house in frantic loops. After about ten rounds, he bounded up to Taylor and prodded her to pet him.
“Poor guy, stuck in the car all that time. Maybe we can walk him a little later?” she said.
Jack looked at his watch. “Let’s get settled first.”
He seemed familiar with the place, as he walked over to a lamp with a base made of miniature canoes and turned it on. The amber glow made the room cozy and inviting, and she headed to a plush brown sofa and ran a hand over the velvety fabric. Large windows with sheer, white curtains on two walls looked out at the barricade of trees, and she suddenly felt safe and cocooned.
“Before we do anything else, we have to change our appearances. Our faces are all over the news.” He pulled out the hair dye and scissors from his bag. “Come on.”
She followed him to the bathroom and turned to him.
“May as well get it over with.” She braced herself while he began to cut her hair. When he was finished, she looked at him with surprise. “It actually isn’t half bad.”
He took a bow. “One of my hidden talents. My mother taught me how. She thought paying for haircuts was wasteful.”
She arched an eyebrow. “You didn’t always have such a steady hand. Remember when you butchered your sister Megan’s hair. I thought she was going to kill you. It was all uneven and spiky.”
He laughed. “I had to sleep with one eye open for weeks.” He took a deep breath and winced. “My turn.” He made broad cuts to his blond hair, cutting it close to his head. Then he picked up the razor.
Taylor winced. “You’re not going to shave it all, are you?”
He made the first swipe right down the middle. “Yup. Guess we’ll get to see what I look like bald.” He grinned. It didn’t take him long to finish. Wow. Who knew hair made such a difference? He wondered what Taylor thought.
“Well?”
Taylor’s eyes traveled the length of his head. “At least it will grow back.”
“Not exactly a ringing endorsement.” He shrugged. “We’re not done yet.” He grabbed the box of hair color from the drugstore. “I don’t know how this will turn out.” He paused and took a long look at her. “I always imagined I could see the reflection of the sun in your hair. I’m sorry to have to do this.” He lifted a strand and held it between his fingers.
She flicked his hand away in obvious annoyance. “Just do it.”
What was wrong with him? Just when the tension between them had started to dissipate he acted like an awkward teenager rushing in for his first kiss.
“Here goes nothing.”
When he was finished, Taylor was a blonde. They walked back into the living room and Beau started whining and turning in circles.
“Aw, baby, it’s okay. It’s still me.” She knelt and called him over to her.
He approached her tentatively and began to sniff. Tail wagging, he licked her face until she was laughing and had to push him away.
“Good job, Jack. My own dog didn’t recognize me.”
He had to admit that her appearance was quite changed. Even with his hack job, she was still beautiful. The familiar longing returned, burning in his belly like a shot of Jameson.
“Are you hungry? How ’bout I fix us something to eat?” Jack said.
“We don’t have any food.”
He opened the refrigerator, which was filled to overflowing with a huge variety of meats, fruits, and vegetables.
Taylor’s stomach growled in anticipation. “Where did that come from?”
“Let’s just say I have resourceful friends.”
“Good to know.”
“How about an omelet?”
“Sounds good.”
Not much later, Taylor sat down at a wooden table by one of the windows. She took a bite from the still-steaming omelet. “Not bad. What kind of cheese is this?”
“Goat. I also threw in some chopped dates.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Impressive. Last time you made me a meal, it was a lumpy peanut butter and jelly sandwich.”
“I seem to remember your liking those sandwiches.” He laughed. “Remember in fourth grade, you would trade me your turkey and cheese for my PB&J?”
She had forgotten that. “They were good. My mother’s never tasted the same. The bread was wrong, and so was the peanut butter. You always had Wonder Bread and Jif.” She used to feel so bad that Jack’s mom didn’t get up with him before school and make him breakfast or pack him a lunch. He had been taking care of himself for as long as she could remember. He became such a regular fixture at their dinner table that, after a while, her mother automatically set a place for him.
“I’m happy to make you one any time you want.”
After Taylor had finished eating, she pushed her plate aside and brought Jack’s laptop to the table, opening it to bring up the VACA bill she had been
reviewing. She had gotten through the rest of it last night and now looked at the rider again, peering in close at one line. “Jack, I think I found something.”
He walked behind her and looked at the screen where she was pointing.
“Look at this. It’s talking about a TB vaccine. Doesn’t one exist already?”
He shrugged. “I’ve never heard of one. Don’t know.”
“Well, this rider claims that one is in testing now for widespread use in the US, and that once it gets FDA approval, it can be mandated in case of a national health emergency.”
“Mandated for kids?” Jack asked.
She shook her head. “No, no. And this has nothing to do with the main bill. This would require all health care workers to get the vaccine if there was an outbreak, and the language defining what an outbreak is goes on for pages.”
“So what? Don’t they already have to do that with flu shots?”
Taylor thought a minute. That was true, but something was niggling at her. “Yeah, but I think that’s more a hospital requirement. This would make it federal law. Right now states mandate those decisions.” She kept reading. “Here. If the incident rate rises above .05, everyone would be required to get the vaccine.”
“Define incident rate.”
“The number of cases per one hundred thousand. The incident rate is now .03.”
“I guess that’s a significant increase, not sure if it’s enough to justify forcing the vaccine on the entire population,” he said.
She swiveled around to face him. “Jack. Why would Congress pass a law mandating a vaccine that doesn’t even exist yet?”
He raised his eyebrows. “Well, you know the old saying—follow the money . . .”
“Good point. The company making the vaccine. Let’s see who that is.” She turned back around and started typing again. “Hmm.”
“What?” Jack asked.
“There is already a TB vaccine. BCG. Says here it’s been around since the 1920s but is not highly effective. Hold on.” She typed in “new TB vaccine.”
“So there’s the Tuberculosis Vaccine Initiative, a nonprofit working together to find a better vaccine.”
“Interesting. I’m assuming they partner with drug companies?”
Taylor clicked through the site. “There’s no specific company listed. But nonprofits are required to file a financial report with the IRS and make it available to the public.” She went through all the tabs on the site. “You can request it here. Should I fill it in?”
Jack shook his head.
“No. Don’t put your email info there. We don’t know if they could be involved with whoever is behind everything. We have to be careful not to tip anyone off. Let me get in touch with my pal Mac. He’s a PI who’s done some work for me.”
“Okay.” Taylor got up and took their dishes to the sink. “So in the meantime, what are we doing here?”
Jack walked over to the fireplace. He pushed aside the mesh curtain and reached inside. Taylor watched as he dislodged a brick and pulled out an envelope. He dusted off his sleeve and brought it over to her, holding it up.
“Our next set of clues.”
“If I didn’t just see it, I wouldn’t believe it.” She shook her head.
Jack opened the envelope carefully and took out a map and a note. He scanned the note then walked over to Taylor.
He handed it to her. “Does this mean anything to you?”
She read it aloud. “Taylor, go to the library in Claremont, New Hampshire, and find your favorite book. The one that has always spoken to you of resilience and fortitude. There, you will find the address. The number can be calculated by multiplying the number of letters in the protagonist’s maiden name times 6 and adding 7. The town bears the same name as the town where her true love returns. The street name will be in the book.” She smiled. “Malcolm is talking about Gone with the Wind.”
Jack chuckled. “Don’t tell me—your favorite part is when Scarlett throws a dish at Rhett Butler’s head.”
“Very funny. He meant the scene where Scarlett swears she’ll never be hungry again.” For a moment, she forgot about Malcolm’s deception and remembered only the intimacies they had shared. She felt a wistful longing for him.
“You and Scarlett definitely share some personality traits,” Jack teased.
She laughed and was surprised to find that the familiar mischievous look in his eyes lightened her heart. For a split second, it was like old times, before any of the complications, when they were just two best friends looking for their next adventure.
She pursed her lips. “And you have a lot in common with Charles Hamilton.” That would fix him.
Jack fell back against the cushion and clutched his heart. “Ah, Scarlett, you have cut me to the quick.”
She became serious. “So we need to go to Claremont and find the book to get the actual street name for Jeremy’s place. We can figure out the number: her maiden name is O’Hara, five letters times six equals thirty plus seven means the street number is thirty-seven.”
Jack nodded. “So, the town. He said where her true love returned. Where did Ashley go?”
Taylor shook her head. “Her true love. Ashley was only who she thought she loved. She didn’t realize until too late that she really loved Rhett and that’s when he left to go back to Charleston.” She was annoyed that she had to explain it. Everyone knew Scarlett never really loved Ashley. Even Malcolm understood that. She realized Jack was talking.
“What?” she said a little too snappishly.
“There’s a Charlestown on the map, that must be what he meant. It’s not far from here.” He circled the two cities. “We’re a little more than an hour away. Now all we need is the street name.”
“We need the book. Let’s hope no one’s checked it out,” she said. “I’ll be right back. Need to use the bathroom.”
She closed the bathroom door and took a deep breath. She had actually been acting like things were fine between them. What was wrong with her? They weren’t away on vacation. She was angry at herself for letting her guard down so easily. Remember what he did. He is not the Jack you used to love. She pulled down her jeans and sat down on the toilet seat. It took a few seconds for her to register what she was seeing. Blood.
No. Not again.
She grabbed the counter to steady herself.
“Jack,” she yelled. “Come here.”
He raced in immediately to see her hunched over, her eyes full of tears.
“I think I’m losing the baby.”
Chapter Nineteen
CROSBY WHEELER GLANCED DOWN AT THE ALERT ON HIS phone and saw the tweet from Hamilton. He pressed the intercom for his secretary. “Get me Winters.”
She buzzed back and let him know he was holding.
Crosby picked up the phone again. “We need to change the lineup on Behind Closed Doors Friday night. Slot in the episode of the family with the disabled kids.”
He clicked off, took a sip of his water, and waited for the video to load. Red letters slowly appeared on his computer monitor until the title of the show filled the screen—Radical Reality: Regrets, Recriminations, and Reflections.
The camera zooms in on a stark-white kitchen with bare counters. A harried-looking woman stares at the camera, runs a hand through disheveled hair, and begins to speak in the voice of one battle weary and defeated.
“It’s Friday morning, but it could be any morning. One day dissolves into the next, the same as the one before, our one and only goal to make it through until we have the blessed reprieve of sleep. I’m Monica. Welcome to my personal hell.”
The camera follows her into the living room, where two children, somewhere between eight and nine, sit, strapped into their individual wheelchairs, heads tilted, eyes unseeing.
The woman holding the camera is an attractive woman in her fifties with warm, compassionate eyes. She reaches out to cover Monica’s hand with her own. “Monica, I know this is terribly difficult for you. We so appreciate you
r giving us a glimpse into your life.” She pauses and then continues. “Can you please share your story with our viewers?”
Monica wipes a tear from the corner of her eye.
“When the girls were in utero, everything looked fine. Their development was on track, and the ultrasounds showed two normal babies. Most people who meet them think that they were born prematurely, but that’s not the case. It wasn’t until they were born that it was discovered that they both suffer from a rare genetic anomaly. If the genetic testing had been done in utero, it would have been discovered before they were born, and all this could have been avoided.”
The interviewer looks shocked by the statement. “Are you saying that you wish they had never been born?”
Monica returns her stare without flinching. “I am saying that I wish they didn’t have to have a life of suffering. They can’t see. They will never walk or speak or have any semblance of a life. I don’t know what they are thinking or feeling. What kind of a life is that for them?”
“I am so sorry. Of course, I have no right to judge. Please go on.”
Monica stands up and begins to pace. “What is going to happen to them when their father and I are gone? Who will take care of them then? All our money is tied up in caring for them now. We’ve spent a fortune making this house wheelchair accessible, so that we can take them out occasionally. And when we do . . . the stares . . . you wouldn’t believe how cruel people can be.”
The reporter shakes her head. “That’s why it’s so important for your story to be told, so people can understand what it’s like. We are so grateful to our sponsors for their support.”
Crosby shut the laptop. The show was perfect—just the thing to get the public on the right side of the Healthy Children bill. He just needed to check one more thing.
He buzzed his secretary again and told her to get the executive producer.
“Louis, how are you handling the legalities surrounding the mother on the RRR show?” he asked once he had him on the phone.
“We have a disclaimer in the rolling credits stating that she is the stepmother. We were very careful with the dialogue, so that she never makes a claim that she was pregnant or is their birth mother.”
