Forgotten Witness (32 page)

They did not talk about Eugene Weller, Ha Kuna House or the targeted requests of Josie Bates for information. They did not discuss Michael Horn or certain declassified documents that were now available regarding CHATTER, Artichoke, and Marigold. Woodrow and Ambrose did not talk about these things because to protect Ambrose’s presidency was to protect Woodrow’s own destiny.

Woodrow did not enjoy keeping secrets from his friend because he was a very decent man. But he was also a decision maker and once decisions were made he owned them. These things made Woodrow an excellent senator and would make him an exceptional vice president.

Sadly, he was never going to get to test his mettle. He was not going to be on the ticket. Ambrose told him so between the arugula salad with heart of palm and the seared salmon accompanied by asparagus quenelles. Thoughts of collective peace and prosperity, decency and practicality were forgotten as Woodrow Calister experienced an unprecedented fury and embraced a ruthless selfishness.

“I am disappointed. I am surprised and disappointed.”

“I know, my friend.”

Ambrose interpreted Woodrow’s even tone as acceptance. The older man motioned to the waiter for coffee. Only Ambrose thanked him when he brought it. When he was gone, the two men remained silent as they added their sugar and cream and stirred their coffee with silver spoons.

“Who will it be, Ambrose? Who could fill the spot better than me?” Woodrow demanded.

“Jerry Norn,” Ambrose answered and the knife in Woodrow’s gut pulled up and laid him bare. “I considered Mark, but Lydia and I both agree that it should be Jerry.”

“I hate to point this out, but Lydia is your damn wife and since when is she the authority on who is best for the country?” Woodrow’s chin clicked to one side and then the other as if grinding down the hard edges of the words he was about to say. “I’m better on paper than Jerry and I’m a better man in the real world, Ambrose. Quite frankly, this is a bullshit decision.”

“I know how it looks right now, Woodrow,” Ambrose said. “I don’t often give nod to politics, but this time I’m afraid I must.”

Ambrose sat back. He touched the sides of the delicate china cup with the tip of his elegant fingers. In the soft lighting of the restaurant Ambrose knew he looked his best, he only wished he felt it. This was not a pleasant conversation. He, too, was disappointed on so many levels but this decision was necessary.

“You have performed admirably for this country, my friend. You have made the hard calls. You hold people’s lives in your hands and yet the public will never know you for the true patriot you are. If I were to put you on the ticket and there were questions that couldn’t be answered about those calls, your candidacy would be detrimental to the campaign.”

“I’m not head of the CIA, Ambrose. I head up a committee,” Woodrow pointed out.

“You might as well be a spymaster. Do you want to be questioned about what you know of our Middle East operations, or what happened to the president of–”

“That would make better press than trying to explain why the vice president of the United States can’t keep it in his pants. With me you’d at least be having an honest discussion of how this country is governed.” Woodrow picked up his coffee. He couldn’t look at Ambrose. He muttered in his disgust, “My God, Ambrose, is that the kind of above-board ticket you want? Jerry’s candidacy is tawdry.”

“And controllable,” Ambrose reminded him.

“Then why not Mark? Hyashi would be better than Jerry.”

“We already have the Asian vote and good relations with Japan.” Ambrose dismissed the idea.

“I’m not talking about his ethnicity. I’m talking about a good man with a solid family life,” Woodrow shot back.

“Not an exciting ticket.” Ambrose waved away the suggestion. “And I’m not sure he’s committed to my vision. Oh, he may be fascinated by the possibility of consciousness and manipulation, but I see him waver. I see his worry.”

“At least he’s thinking, Ambrose. That’s more than I can say for Jerry.”

“You sell our colleague short,” Ambrose chuckled. “Jerry’s mind never stops looking for profitable opportunity. Not just money, Woodrow, but opportunities to make this country greater than it has ever been before. Unlike you or I, Jerry’s currency is love. The more he gets, the more he gives. Everyone responds to him. Women are wooed, men want to have a beer with him, old folk see their wayward sons and grandsons in him. The public loves a bad boy, Woodrow, and we, sadly, are far too boring together. No, this is the perfect ticket: Jerry’s energy and my gravitas. It’s the stuff that captures the imagination.”

“That’s what you’re all about, isn’t it, Ambrose? You want to screw with people’s minds to get what you want. I imagine Mark is right to be concerned. You are a sick bastard.”

“The science of politics is quite different from the science that will deliver the world from the consequences of its own misguided thinking,” Ambrose answered. “Besides, I might need you for something more important. I’m waiting to see how it plays out.”

“There isn’t anything more important, so don’t patronize me.”

Woodrow pushed aside the coffee. He leaned over the table and lowered his voice even though no one would have dared come close now that the conversation had intensified.

“Four of our troops were killed testing Medusa. Did you know that, Ambrose? They were killed testing a weapon that shot sound waves into their brains. This was a weapon that our research assured us was non-lethal.”

“I am sorry to hear that.” Ambrose sat back. “But you can’t deny that testing was necessary. Better to disable the mind than to shed blood if it’s for a good and noble cause. The mind is the thing we must conquer. The mind is–”

“Save it Ambrose.” Woodrow stood up abruptly, “If I were you I wouldn’t be worrying so much about people’s brains, I’d be worried about who’s watching your back.”

Woodrow Calister walked out of the restaurant leaving Ambrose Patriota to ponder that Woodrow was almost prescient. For, indeed, Ambrose Patriota knew exactly who was watching his back and who wasn’t.

***

Johnson had put his boots back on and now walked the house without worrying about the noise or the mess he was making. Emily Bates was the only one left in the house and she was as good as dead. But when Johnson got to Emily’s room and saw the empty bed he was on his guard. He did a quarter turn and stepped back to look into the adjoining room. She was not in the rocking chair. The bathroom was dark.

Keeping his weapon steady he sidestepped to the bed and put his hand on the mattress. The sheets were warm. He backed up a step and touched the cot. It was cool, but canvas did not retain body heat in the same way that cotton sheets did. He had no way of telling if someone had lain on it ten minutes or ten hours ago. Then again, he had never been in this room so he didn’t know if this was standard operating procedure because Emily was ambulatory. Maybe the night girl had the cot ready in case her party friend didn’t show. Maybe Amelia used it during the day. Not that it mattered. Nobody was using it now.

The wind cracked and howled again, the rain beat against the glass of the tall window where he had often looked up to see the beautiful, mindless woman staring out at nothing. It bugged him that she’d given him the slip, but he wasn’t overly concerned. She wouldn’t last long out there. Even if she did, what in the heck could she tell anyone? She was an idiot, as good as deaf, blind, and dumb. Johnson walked to the window. His gun now dangled from his hand. The night girl’s car and her friend’s were watery images on the drive.

He started back through the house, still bothered that Emily was nowhere to be found. He hated loose ends. By the time he got to the back door, Johnson had worked himself into a good snit worthy of Bernard Reynolds.

***

The staircase was built into a pocket of space between the inside and outside wall. What Josie had assumed were windows to the interior of the house were really additions to the façade at the back of the house.

“What is this place?” Josie whispered.

“The servants used it in the old days,” Amelia answered. “Come on, Emily. Just a little more.”

“Who else knows it’s here?” Josie asked.

“It doesn’t matter.” They wound down and down until they reached the ground floor and stopped between two doors.

“Kitchen.” Amelia nodded toward one door but opened the other. Warm, wet air blew in and Josie pulled Emily close, shielding her with her body. Amelia didn’t wait, she ran the minute she called out: “Come on. Go now.”

Josie started after her but Emily pulled back. Josie tightened her grip on Emily’s arm. This time she wasn’t going to be caught off guard; this time Josie would be the strong one.

“She said go.”

Josie forced her mother outside. Head down, they rushed after Amelia, Emily awkward and stumbling, but keeping up better than Josie would have thought possible. They were almost across the backyard and into the forest when Emily fell. Josie screamed for Amelia. By some miracle she heard and rushed back. Together they picked up Emily and ran again, throwing themselves into the forest, cutting a parallel path to the road Emily and Josie had taken a week earlier.

Amelia threw herself into a thicket and pulled Emily and Josie with her. Huddled together, they stared ahead, waiting. Suddenly, Amelia lunged forward and grabbed the vines and branches and pulled them tighter to create a natural hutch. She sat back and put her arm around Emily.

“The night girl and her friend are dead. Mr. Traini, too. Maybe Mr. Reynolds.” Amelia whispered. “Everyone I’m pretty sure.”

“Who did it?” Josie asked.

Amelia shook her head. She pushed her wet hair out of her eyes and then pushed Emily’s short hair back as she spoke.

“Whoever it was, they were still in the house. I heard a man.”

“We shouldn’t stay here,” Josie warned.

The rain was coming through the canopy of plants and tree branches. She didn’t mind for herself or Amelia, but she had no idea if Emily was strong enough to stay as they were.

“I don’t know where to go,” Amelia answered.

The words were barely out of her mouth when Emily bolted, scrambling up, fighting through the plants, all arms and legs, and grunts. Josie caught her gown but she twisted and turned until she was free. The younger women fought their way out and into the rain. Tenting their hands over their eyes, they squinted against the needles of water.

“There!” Josie sprinted ahead with Amelia on their heels.

All three women crashed through the forest, Emily too far ahead to be caught. She fought through the low hanging branches, pounded across the ground cover, slipped on the muddy bare patches of ground, slashed at the vines with frantic hands. She was suddenly strong, all motion, a physical force to be reckoned with. More than that, though, Emily Bates seemed to have a purpose. Something spawned her flight, something drove her to keep a step ahead of her daughter, and something deep in her brain guided her forward on a true path. Suddenly, Josie realized they were getting close to the cliffs.

“Mom!” she screamed, but she had lost sight of Emily.

When she reached the place where she had last seen her mother Josie fell to her knees, bent over, and slammed her fists into the ground, but Amelia was sharper eyed.

“Get up. Get up. Look at this.” Amelia hunkered down a few feet away, pushing aside plants. “She’s in there.”

“Where?” Josie crawled to Amelia and got onto her haunches. At first all she saw were plants and vines but then her eyes adjusted.

“A cave?”

“Something else,” Amelia said.

They peered at a corridor high enough and wide enough for two men to walk through. At one time it had been paved but the concrete was now cracked and broken. A dry breeze blew up toward them so whatever was in there, it was sheltered. Josie found her cell phone. There were no bars to connect her to the outside world but she had a flashlight app. She held it up and led the way. Ten yards down they stopped in front of a heavy wooden door hanging on rusting iron hinges. In the middle of it was an opening hatched with iron bars.

“What is this?” Amelia whispered.

Josie shook her head and ran the light over it, top to bottom and side to side. Amelia moved up against Josie’s shoulder.

“Emily?” Amelia called.

There was no answer. Instead, carried on the cool, dry air of the bunker they heard:

“Marigolds. Marigolds, Ian. Yes, we are.”

Restricted Environmental Stimulation Therapy (REST)

There are two basic methods of restricted environmental stimulation therapy (REST): chamber REST and flotation REST.

CHAPTER 25

Josie couldn’t imagine anything blacker than pitch and yet this place was. It was blacker than the sea that had embraced Billy Zuni, darker than the cement outbuilding where she had been a prisoner, darker than her child’s heart after her mother’s desertion. This place, Josie was sure, was darker than hell and it wasn’t because it was buried in the ground, it was because this place was evil.

They were in a high domed, concrete room. An old, tin light fixture hung from the ceiling but it looked like it hadn’t been used in years. Josie pulled the chain. It didn’t work. A sweep of the place with her flashlight illuminated boxes, tables, and equipment stacked around the perimeter. Emily Bates sat in a high backed wooden chair carrying on her conversation with Ian Francis, long dead and lying on a slab in a morgue, forgotten by everyone but her. Amelia let go of Josie. Intrigued by the place, she pirouetted just outside the halo of Josie’s beam. Suddenly, Emily stopped singing and Josie swung the phone her way. Her mother’s hands hung limply over the chair arms as she watched Amelia. That’s when Josie noticed the restraints. Ian’s carefully drawn picture was now a reality.

“It’s a storeroom.” Amelia stopped turning and went for a box. “Mr. Reynolds didn’t lie. They did put everything in storage.”

“It looks like more than that.” Josie turned from Emily and held the light up so Amelia could read the labels.