The Canaries
By Victor Kreuiter
Alpha Bravo Charlie
The limousine entered the executive lot, found a spot in back and backed into it, allowing the driver a sightline to the door Cogent CEO Daniel Barton would exit. It was late afternoon, almost winter, sunny, with a light breeze. The chauffeur put his cellphone on the dash, picked up an issue of Bloomberg’s from the passenger seat and paged through.
Alpha and Bravo, dressed like Cogent security, were behind a landscaping wall separating Cogent Pharmaceutical’s parking lot from a field that ran uphill for fifty yards before reaching a tract of woods. Seeing the driver settle in, they stepped onto Cogent’s lot and sauntered toward the limo; reaching the driver’s door, Alpha tapped on the roof. Surprised, the driver dropped the magazine, looked up, saw the uniforms, smiled and cracked the door.
“You guys scared me!” He chuckled. Winston Hart was sixty-three years old, had brown eyes, almond-colored skin and a trim moustache. His eyes moved from Alpha to Bravo and back. “I’m Daniel Barton’s driver,” he said.
“We know,” Alpha said. He was white, paunchy, and bearded. “We’re doing rounds.”
Bravo, dark-skinned and thin, stepped around Alpha, leaned down to catch Hart’s eye, then tilted his head backwards toward Alpha and rolled his eyes, sending a message: White guy. Let’s humor him. You know how they get. “Sorry,” he said, “but could you step out for a second?” He grimaced, like he was embarrassed.
Hart, confused, stepped out of the car and was straightening up when a panel van pulled up. The side door opened and a man out stepped, similar height, weight and skin color as the chauffeur. Similar haircut. Similar clothes. He walked past Hart, grabbed the limo door and slid in. He looked up at Alpha and Bravo, nodded to both of them and said “Charlie says go.”
“What?” Hart said. He turned to Bravo. Bravo had a weapon in his hand. He stepped closer to Hart. “We’ll need your cell phone,” he said. Hart winced, pointed at the limo and said, “Cell’s on the dash.” Charlie picked up the cell, showed it to Alpha and Bravo then put it back on the dash. Alpha and Bravo worked Hart into the van and followed him in. A single captain’s chair in back, facing forward. Two captain’s chairs in the middle, facing backwards. A driver at the wheel, looking straight ahead. No windows. Hart was guided in and seconds later the van was moving. Bravo leaned forward, pointed at the seat belt and shoulder harness, sat back and strapped himself in. “Get those on,” he said, and watched Hart follow orders. He leaned forward and said, “Listen carefully.” It was soft-spoken, just above a whisper. “You’re safe,” he said. Hart’s eyes looked glassy. “This’ll be over before you know it.”
They drove for an hour, then another. It was light, then dusk, then dark; Alpha and Bravo kept eyes on Hart the whole time. No one spoke. Traffic noise came and went. The van never went fast, never went slow; it stopped and started, turned right and left, got on the interstate and got off. Several times Hart started to speak, and each time Alpha and Bravo would shake their head—no talking. Hart trained his eyes on the windshield, looking for anything familiar. Eventually the van slowed, turned left, went down a short incline, gravel crunching underneath. The van crawled, then stopped. Hart heard metal groaning. The van moved forward, into some type of building where it was dark. Metal groaning again. A gate? A door? The driver opened his door, stepped out and was gone.
“You okay?” Bravo asked. He leaned forward, sizing up the chauffeur he’d snatched from a limousine parked in the executive lot at Cogent Pharmaceutical. Hart nodded, breathing through his mouth.
Bravo sat back, relaxed. “Take a good look at us,” he said.
Hart dropped his gaze, reflex action.
“Really. Take a good look. You’re gonna get questioned about this. You’ll get drilled for hours, maybe days, so it’s best you tell the truth. We understand. When you’re questioned, tell the truth. Describe us best you can. Give ’em the time, the van, the whole thing.”
Hart looked up, studied them, then looked away. His breathing had slowed. His neck and his shoulders ached. They sat for in silence. Asked if he needed anything—water, food, a bathroom—Hart shook his head and kept his eyes down. He felt tension in his shoulders, his chest, down through his legs. Finally, he rolled his neck around, moved his shoulders up and his arms out and spread his fingers. He watched his captors while he did it, worried. They didn’t flinch. “What’s this about?” he asked
Alpha looked at Bravo, shrugged, looked at Hart and said, “Best you don’t know.”
“What you gonna do with Mr. Barton?”
“Talk,” Bravo said.
Alpha tapped Bravo on the shoulder, pointed a thumb at the door and Bravo scooted over, opened the door and stepped out, allowed Alpha to follow, then stepped back in and closed the door.
“I’ll lose my job,” Hart said.
Bravo shrugged. “Maybe not.” He tilted his head, weighing his comment. “Listen, when you’re questioned, tell the truth. Say exactly what happened. Tell ’em we told you that. It’ll sound weird, but it’s true. You can’t get tricked up if you tell the truth.” Hart kept his eyes down; Bravo kept talking “Tell them everything. What we look like. This van. This shed. Everything you remember. Tell ’em everything you know.”
Bravo listened to Hart’s breathing. His own breathing was calm; that surprised him. He figured he’d be jittery, but he wasn’t.
Minutes later, Hart was moved out of the van. He was in a pole barn, dirt floor, no loft, no windows. Alpha was standing there waiting. He led Hart to a cot, had him lay down and cuffed both ankles to the frame. A trouble light was hanging on the cot, producing weak light, extension cord disappearing into the dark. Hart lay on the cot, trying to remember everything: what Alpha and Bravo looked like, their voices, their clothes, the van and which way it exited Cogent. Stops, starts, turns, traffic noise. He felt sick to his stomach.
He’d wake in the morning, on the cot, alone, and find the key to the cuffs next to his cot.
*** *** ***
The cell rang, Charlie picked it up, listened, started the limo and drove to the main building. He was getting out to open the door for Barton when he saw Barton wave him off. “It’s okay, Winston,” Barton said. “I got it.”
Charlie went back to the driver’s seat, waited to hear the door close behind him, put the limo into Drive and exited the lot. One and a quarter mile later he pulled into a half-built strip mall, drove to the back and stopped next to a dark grey SUV. In the back seat, Daniel Barton frowned, leaned forward and was about to say something when his door opened. A woman wearing jeans and a grey sweatshirt leaned in, looked at Charlie and said, “Echo.” She looked at Barton and said “Come with me, Mr. Barton. Quickly. There’s not much time.” She reached over, put a hand on Barton’s shoulder and guided him out of the limo.
The driver’s door of the SUV opened. A big man, white, wearing a uniform and a chauffeur’s cap, stepped out and helped Barton into the backseat of the SUV, then watched Echo push Barton toward the opposite door and crawl in. He turned to the limo, leaned over and said, “Delta says go,”
Charlie drove off.
Delta entered the SUV, buckled in and felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned; it was Echo, leaning forward. “Echo says go,” she said. Then she turned to Daniel Barton, held out a hand and said, “Cell phone, please.
Delta Echo Foxtrot
Door locks went down and the SUV accelerated out of the lot.
Barton grunted, raised his left arm and lunged, swinging at the woman’s face. She leaned into him, used her right arm to block and her right hand to grab his collar and push him back. She raised her left hand, pointing something at him. A gun? She pushed harder, pushed him till he was tilted away from her, then held something to his face. He jerked his head back, looked away.
She hissed. “Stop.”
He tried to straighten up, tried to swing his arm again; she raised up on her knees and leaned her weight into him, her right hand still on his collar. She brought her left hand around, pressed something against his neck and said “Stop.”
He leaned away, head back, trying to see what was in her hand. She leaned in close, holding the object against his cheek, looking into his eyes. He turned away and she said, “Look at me.” He didn’t. She repeated her command, and Barton turned slowly, saw her studying him. She had a knee stuck in his left leg, her right hand gripping his forearm. “Calm down,” she said.
Barton swung his eyes to the driver, cocked his head and looked out through the windshield. There was traffic out there. Daylight fading. This ran through his mind: open the door and jump.
She cracked him on the side of the head with the device, held it in front of his eyes: a stun gun. She pointed it up, clicked it and he saw the blue flash. “Easy,” she said. She pushed off from him, straightened herself, put her right hand back on his shoulder and leaned forward, looking into his face. “Look at me,” she said. He hesitated, then their eyes met. He thought she’d be young; she wasn’t. Dark eyes. Dark hair. Thin lips. Scrawny, wiry, wrinkled. He kept looking and she held perfectly still, letting him look, keeping that hand on his shoulder. She watched him watch her, his eyes darting around the SUV, out the windows, back to her. “Easy,” she said.
His lips moved; he was trying to come out with something. She leaned away from him and watched him wheeze, blink, rub his eyes with thumb and forefinger. His vision was blurred; there were black spots dancing in front of his eyes.
“Cell phone,” she said.
He pulled it from his jacket, handed it over, then asked, “What’s this about?”
She waited for him to look at her before responding. “You need to listen,” she said.
He took a breath and straightened up in his seat. “What do you want?” Louder this time.
Echo leaned closer, got eye to eye. “Mister Barton,” she said, “you are not in charge,” she said. “Understand?”
His neck and his jaw tightened. Anger. She’d anticipated that.
“Take a good look at me,” she said. He did. She sat back, leaned against her door, facing him. “Listen very carefully,” she said.
He growled. “You…”
She leaned toward him, slapped his arm. “Nope,” she said, “not now.” She turned, looked out the windshield, glancing at the driver. When she turned back to Barton she saw more anger. Tension. Fear. Nothing she didn’t expect.
“My wife…”
Echo shook her head again. “Not now.”
“If you…”
She grabbed his arm and yanked. “Your wife? You met her at the University of Illinois in 1978. Gail Hendricks was working on her bachelor’s in education. You were completing a masters in chemistry, after which you started the MBA you never finished.”
He leaned away from her, looked her up and down.
“Your son, Arthur, is a chemical engineer and works for you. He’s divorced and has one daughter, Caroline. Your daughter, Marjorie, is an accountant working in Bridgeport, Connecticut, where her husband, Lawrence, is assistant superintendent of schools. Their two boys are David and Theodore.”
“She…”
She yanked his arm harder. “Listen. Your family’s okay. Don’t worry about them …but you? You won’t make it home tonight, okay? Cooperate and you’ll get home tomorrow, safely.” She sat back.
Daniel Barton pointed his eyes forward. Where were they now, exactly? He looked out: farm country. He could just make it out through the windshield. They drove for a while, and after a bit they turned around and seemed to retrace the route. Turns onto county roads, farm roads, roads he’d never seen before. He watched for road signs of any kind. The driving seemed aimless, then he realized, no, it wouldn’t be aimless.
Dusk dimmed out and it turned dark. He saw the occasional house set back off the road, lights on. An occasional passing car. An hour? Two? Hard to determine. Then a long tree-lined road, a long curve; the SUV slowed, then stopped in the middle of the road.
Echo opened her door and stepped out. A man took her place. He tapped the driver on the shoulder and said, “Foxtrot says go.”
The SUV took off and the new arrival looked at Daniel Barton, nodded to him politely, then pulled something out of his pocket.
“Stay calm,” Foxtrot said, then he forced a hood over Barton’s head and as Barton shouted, bucked, cursed and shook his head, Foxtrot held the hood firmly down on Barton’s head and slowly and quietly repeated: “Easy. Easy.”
Golf Hotel India
Barton jerked his head side to side, panicked, striking out with hands and arms, swinging wildly. Foxtrot held tight, slapping Barton’s hands down, whispering: “Easy.” He leaned his weight against Barton, got up on both knees, arms wrapped around Barton’s shoulders, holding him down until Barton gave up and went silent. They drove on. Barton wondered, were they back on the interstate? He tried to remember what he’d seen before the hood. A woman, this man, the drivers, the roads, all of it a jumble. There was traffic noise again, cars and trucks passing or being passed and he felt the vehicle fade to the right, go up an incline and stop; a left turn, acceleration and the noise outside faded. They drove in silence, slowed down, turned once more and drove slowly for what—an hour? More? A right turn, they slowed and drove on. No road noise, no traffic noise, then the vehicle pulled over and stopped. Barton’s heart was pounding.
The driver exited. Barton heard footsteps fade. It was quiet, then Foxtrot spoke.
“I’m taking the hood off,” he said. “We’re here.” Silence for another minute, then Barton felt a hand on his shoulder. Foxtrot removed the hood and watched Barton closely. Barton’s chest was heaving; he was twisting his neck side to side, back and forth. No eye contact.
“I’m leaving,” Foxtrot said. “Give it a minute then follow me out the same door, the same door I use. Don’t run. Wait to be approached. Follow my instructions carefully, okay?” Foxtrot wondered if Barton was listening. He hoped so. He scooted out the car and was gone.
Barton sat quietly for a few minutes, captive in an SUV on a deserted road. How long had it been? A few hours maybe, that’s what he thought. He tried to remember the sequence of events, sights, sounds, the voice of the guy who forced a hood over his head. He shivered, tried to put all that remembering aside. He had to think, be on guard. He removed his shoulder harness and seat belt, slid over and stepped out. It was chilly. The sky was clear and there was a breeze. The tree line was close on both sides of the road. There was a gravel shoulder, both sides of the road, just wide enough for an automobile. He walked to the rear of the SUV, stood quietly for a moment, then said “Hello?”
Footsteps on gravel, approaching from the front. Run? He looked at the tree line. Run? A shape appeared, stepped around the SUV and touched Barton’s arm. A man looked into his eyes and slapped his shoulder. “You’re doing fine,” he said.
Barton saw someone emerge from the tree line opposite; his heart rate picked up again and he felt dizzy. It was another man, and upon arriving he nodded to Barton then pointed to the closer tree line, indicating Barton should take a look. A figure was approaching, a woman. She walked straight to Barton, nodded and said, “You’re being watched.” The man who’d been first to arrive looked at the woman and tapped his chest. “Golf,” he said.
She nodded and said, “Hotel says go.”
The man who’d come out of the trees looked at Hotel and tapped his chest. “India,” he said, then looked at Golf and said, “India says go.”
Golf entered the SUV, the engine started, headlights popped on and the vehicle pulled away.
Hotel looked at Barton. “We walk from here,” she said, and she turned and started walking. India stepped behind Barton, held out a hand and nodded his head in the direction Hotel was walking. “We follow,” he said.
They walked no more than a hundred yards before they turned and headed into the woods, Hotel in the lead, Barton behind, India in the rear. It was darker in the trees. Barton was shivering, nervous. He glanced left and right, wondering about escape. Run? The path went deeper into the woods. They walked along a dry stream bed, stepped into and through it, dodging underbrush. The path twisted, turned, rose, then fell. Trees were nearly bare. Barton was keyed up, breathing hard, face and hands cold, still wondering: Run? They walked for a while—fifteen minutes maybe—and when they stopped Barton could make out a clearing straight ahead. He looked out into the clearing, over the trees, hoping he’d see city lights. Highway lights. Lights from anywhere.
Hotel and India ignored him, staring into the clearing. When Hotel turned to him, she said, “Here’s where we part.” India stepped beside her. “Take a good look at us,” he said. They stood quietly, arms down, relaxed, and India said, “We picked you up about three hours ago, if that helps.” He watched that sink in. Barton stared at both of them, studying their features. He’d recognize them again, wouldn’t he? Why would they want him to see their faces? That bothered him. Building trust? After this? “This is as far as we go,” Hotel said. She studied him. “You’re being watched,” she said, “so don’t run.”
Barton felt the urge to speak … say something. He heard a rustling behind and to his right, turned and someone stepped around him, tapped the two in front of him on their shoulders and said, “Juliet says go.”
Hotel and India stepped around Barton and started walking back in the direction they’d come. The new arrival was staring out into the clearing, his back to Barton.
Juliet
Juliet was broad-shouldered, taller than Barton by a head, hands by his side. “You ready?” he asked over his shoulder. He turned to face Barton, stepped closer and shoved hands into his jacket pockets. “It’s chilly,” he said.
Barton didn’t respond.
“You okay?”
Barton closed his eyes and inhaled, opened his eyes and exhaled. Panic again, and he tried to beat it back. He stared at Juliet, took a half step backwards, balance a bit off, and caught himself. “You won’t get away with this,” he said.
Juliet shrugged. His job was get Daniel Barton to the middle of the clearing. He watched Barton bend over, drop hands to his knees and take deep breaths, eyes closed, then struggle to stand up straight. He gave him a second to recover, took a step nearer, put a hand on Barton’s arm and guided him out into the clearing where it was quiet, just as quiet as being in the trees. Barton looked to the tree line, followed it around as far as he could see. Nothing but shadows. They walked, and as they approached the middle of the clearing, he saw a mound of dirt, someone standing beside it. They walked to the mound, stopped, and that’s when Barton saw the hole, maybe four feet wide, maybe four feet long, maybe four feet deep. It was a fresh dig, and he wanted to scream, was about to, but before he could, Juliet dropped a hood over his head. Barton went wild. He shouted, swung his arms, pushed, pulled away, kicked. He was tackled and held down on his back. A slap to his head, an arm across his chest and a hand, then two hands on his mouth. He fought, twisted, tried to shout again; his head was pushed down hard and held. “Quiet,” Juliet said. His two hands covered Barton’s mouth, his torso directly on top of him.
Barton felt somebody else on his legs. Another set of hands, and the panic got worse. The more he struggled the more his captors bore down on him. His breathing was shallow and his hands were trapped atop his chest and his legs were pinned down. He struggled until he was exhausted.
There were two captors now. Juliet slowly pushed himself off Barton. Whoever was on Barton’s legs stepped off. A quiet moment, then Barton was yanked up to his feet. His hands were pulled behind his back; cuffs clicked on. He was forced back down to his knees. He pulled his head back, started to shout and received a slap to his head, then another.
“Barton!” It was Juliet, hissing. “Stop!”
Barton twisted his shoulders and rolled his head to the side.
A new voice: “Daniel Barton.”
Barton stopped, inhaled and held it.
“Stop. If you want this over sooner rather than later, stop.” Silence. “We’re going to get you situated,” this new voice said. “This is going to be stressful. You’ll be frightened, I get that. If you calm down, you’ll be out of the cuffs in a few minutes, hood off.” A pause. “Say yes if you understand.”
Barton said nothing.
Juliet said, “We’re going to stand you up.”
Barton felt hands under his arms. He was stood up and his captors stepped away; he heard some whispering, then a step and his hood was removed.
He was staring into the face of Juliet, who was leaning forward, brows furrowed, watching him closely. Then—Juliet in front and the someone in back—he was walked to the edge of the hole. Juliet went in, Barton was helped in and went to his knees. Juliet pulled him up.
“I gotta go,” Juliet said. Barton blinked, pulse pounding in his ears. “Remember, if you want this over, you need to listen. If you don’t, you’ll be here tomorrow night, too. Nobody wants that.”
He heard Juliet’s accomplice drop into the hole, step behind him, grab his wrists and remove his cuffs, then step around him and stand next to Juliet. The accomplice looked Barton directly in the eyes, nodded, then turned to Juliet and said, “Kilo says go.”
Kilo
Kilo put a hand on Barton’s shoulder, and they watched Juliet climb out of the hole and walk off. When Juliet disappeared, Kilo climbed out of the hole, turned to face each side of the clearing, each time waving his arms. He was medium height, medium weight, dark skinned. Mexican? Puerto Rican? Barton couldn’t tell. His hair was coal black and combed straight back. He made eye contact with Daniel Barton and sighed. “Man,” he said, “this next part, you gotta be calm.”
He dropped into the hole, sat down on the edge, shrugged, smiled, then pulled a black hood out of his back pocket and held it up for Barton to see. “I don’t want to put this on you,” he said.
Barton looked away.
“Wearing this hood,” Kilo said, “that’s what it’s like.” He waited for Barton to look at him. It took a minute. “That’s what it’s like, okay? Living in the dark. One day you’re sick but you think there’s a way. It’s all the time up and down. You get good news, or think you do, then it goes dark again.” Kilo watched Barton; it didn’t look like Barton understood a word. “You don’t get it yet,” Kilo said, “but you gotta try.”
Kilo climbed out of the hole, faced all four directions and held up his hands like he was stopping traffic. He got back in and motioned for Barton to stand in the middle.
“Some people going to come and put the dirt back, okay?” Kilo walked to the middle of the hole, stood next to Barton and imagined where the dirt would hit the CEO.
Dirt would go up above Barton’s waist.
He walked back to the edge of the hole and leaned against it. “So,” he said, “hole gonna fill up to your stomach,” he said, nodding like he’d solved a problem. “I’m gonna stay here with you ’til it’s done,” he said. “You gonna get scared. I know, it’s spooky. But it’s part of the plan. Don’t shout or nothing, okay? You ain’t gonna shout, are you?”
Barton did not respond. He was looking away, trembling.
Kilo watched Barton, thinking: Will Barton try something? He climbed out of the hole, went to the dirt pile, picked something up and returned. Barton was still standing in the middle, dirt all over his pants, face pale and fists clenching and unclenching, sweating, frightened. Kilo walked over and handed him a garden trowel. Red handle. Brand new. “Hang onto that,” Kilo said. He watched Barton take it and stare at it.
Barton wondered if it could be a weapon.
“They gonna come up and put dirt back in the hole,” Kilo said. “Don’t shout or nothing, okay? You can look at them. Look at their faces if you want. It’s okay. You remember their faces, my face, that’s okay. I’ma stay here and we’ll talk, okay? Be calm. I know that won’t be easy, but you don’t want that hood no more, right? You don’t want them cuffs on, do you?”
Kilo watched Barton’s eyes blink, breathing heavy, mouth open. He climbed out of the hole, waved in all four directions, returned to the hole and stood next to Daniel Barton. He put a hand on Barton’s arm. “Easy,” he said.
Barton heard footsteps approach—no voices—and hung his head. He jumped when the first dirt landed at his feet. Kilo stayed. More dirt landed with a woomph and then it picked up, almost like rain. Dirt landing from all four sides, tugging at Barton’s pants, over his shoes, up his shins, over his calves – that’s when Kilo stepped away, saying “Keep your eyes on me, Mr. Barton, keep your eyes on me. I’ma be here with you, I promise.”
Barton fought back the panic that was gagging him, him trying to swallow, sweating now in the cold and following Kilo’s climb out of the hole and not even thinking about escape or safety. None of that. He focused on breathing. He closed his eyes and concentrated on standing still while Kilo stood beside the hole, talking. Barton never said a word; he ignored the thump-thump-thump of dirt hitting around him. Dirt up to his knees and over, tight. Up on his thighs, up to his hips and waist, getting tighter and tighter, holding him, dirt landing up against his belly and his back and his sides, raining down and holding him in and it was going up his chest before it stopped. He glanced right. Mound gone. He couldn’t move. Breathing shallow, black spots in his vision. He never heard footsteps retreating and he didn’t look at Kilo anymore. Finally, Kilo broke the silence.
“Mr. Barton?” Kilo felt sadness wash over him. He knew he’d feel that. He had to get past it; there’s only so much feeling to go around.
“Everybody you seen tonight is dying,” Kilo said. He watched to make sure Barton heard. “Every person you seen is terminal. That means dying.” Kilo was looking at Daniel Barton and Daniel Barton was looking back. “That’s why we want you to see our faces. Remember the faces. All of us dying. Nothing can be done.”
Barton’s chin sagged. Fatigue. Stress. His face and neck, his chest and his arms were cold. He rolled his neck, wondering why in the world he was half-buried in some hole. Who were these people, wanting him to remember what they looked like?
“I got maybe a year,” Kilo said.
Barton shivered, wondering what he had to do with all this. Kilo smiled and Barton looked away. “Nobody’s blaming you. That’s not it.” Kilo stopped and Barton turned to see Kilo swallow hard and rub his hands over his face and take a moment. “This is as smart as we are,” Kilo said. “This here, this is as smart as we are, okay? It’s our best idea so far. We didn’t want to kidnap nobody, hurt nobody, blow something up or burn something down. Whoever thought this up and put this together—it wasn’t me—but this is the best idea they had. Really. Before this was planned, before I got involved and all these other people get involved, people was writing letters. You know, writing letters to companies like yours. To government, too. Writing doctors and hospitals. Insurance companies, I guess. Asking. We asked for years, you know, please help. Help us out with, you know, drugs. Healthcare. Insurance. It’s expensive. People losing everything. Skipping meals to buy medication. We asked. We asked why everything so expensive. Drugs and medicine. Why the doctor and the hospital, why is it so expensive? Nobody responded. Like, nobody wanted to hear from us. So…” Kilo stopped and hung his head, like he was embarrassed. Silence for a minute, and then he looked up again. “Hey, we couldn’t grab no senator, could we?” The smiled and shook his head. “We grab one of them we’re in real trouble.” He laughed. “Government? Couldn’t get nowhere with them. So we thought we’d go to the companies. You know, corporations. We called and wrote these corporations. I bet we wrote your company … I bet we did. But didn’t seem like that made any difference.”
Kilo looked away, checked the tree line, looked up at the stars, looked at the moon and stared at it. “We needed to talk to you top people, the people running all these businesses … have a conversation. We wanna talk to someone can actually change things, okay? But you top people, you’re busy I guess. So, this is what we thought up. This is how we get to speak to the top dog and say what’s on our minds.” Kilo shrugged. He looked at Barton who was looking at him with a vacant stare, buried in dirt up to his chest, his face blank.
“I’m sorry,” Kilo said. “I’m sorry this happened to you. I hope Jesus forgives me. Jesus gonna judge me and I got to live with that. But I would do this again. Jesus, Lord, forgive me, I would. I thought about this and I prayed on it and I decided that yes, if nobody gets hurt, well, it’s what we gotta do.” He looked up at the stars.
Barton heard someone moving through the grass, coming from behind. A body crossed right in front of him and he looked up. It was a woman; she walked up to Kilo, looked into his face, patted his shoulder, turned to look at Barton and smiled. She was heavyset, wearing blue jeans, a sweatshirt and a jacket. She turned back to Kilo and said, “Lima says go.”
LIMA
“Mr. Barton,” Lima said, “this ain’t right, and we know it.”
The moon was behind her. She stepped around so Barton could see her face, leaned down, put a hand on the ground and plopped down in front of him, laughing. “I’m fat,” she said, “and got no business being out here like this.”
Barton studied her face.
She looked at him, raised her chin and smiled. “Okay, get a look. Please.” She smiled, put a hand down and leaned on it, trying to get comfortable.
“Doctor gave me six months a year ago,” she said. She laughed from her belly and looked to see if that bit of biography hit him. Didn’t seem like it did. She shifted again, moving her butt and her hips, keeping her gaze on a half-buried man.
“Why am I here,” Barton said.
Lima pulled her head and shoulders back and nodded. “Glad you asked.”
Barton repeated the question, sharper this time. “Why am I here?” Lima looked at him carefully, her tongue working on her teeth and her gums. “This is madness,” he said.
She sniffed, leaned closer, stretched out her neck and cocked her head to the side. She reached over and pulled the red trowel from his hand and pitched it behind her. He watched it go like he’d never seen it before.
“You’ve been with us for some few hours,” she said. She let that sink in, sighed, shifted again then struggled to her feet, saying “Sorry, but you’re gonna have to look up to see me. Ground’s too cold.”
She’d told herself to be understanding. Be patient. She slapped at her jeans, brushing the dirt, and looked down at Barton. “Listen carefully, because here’s the takeaway. You’re going to hear it one time and one time only.” Barton was looking left and right, at nothing in particular. “Look at me, Mr. Barton,” she said. “Look up at me and listen.”
Lima stepped away, rolled her shoulders and looked down at where she was standing, fresh earth, recently shoveled into a hole in a clearing in the woods—a man stuck the middle—delivered here by people she’d never met and never would. Was it teamwork? Sure was. Everyone involved had a one-off assignment that came via email or snail mail or phone call or some clandestine meeting or something even more screwy. Who dreamed this up?
“You’re a church-goer,” Lima said, “attend regularly, so we’re told. That’s why you’re here. You’re a family man. That’s another.” She watched Barton, eyes down, listening. She waited for him to look up. “Look, I don’t know what products your company makes. I have no idea, and I’m okay with that because the message I am here to deliver is aimed at your entire industry.” She paused, looked behind her, looked side to side. “We’re asking you to go to everybody in your industry—pharmaceuticals— and discuss pricing.” She watched his eyes narrow. He’d positioned his hands in front of himself, flat on the dirt. His body temperature was dropping.
“Call around,” she said. “You gotta know who’s who in your business, so get a meeting with all the bigshots, the ones running these big companies. Get ’em together and talk about ways to make drugs more affordable. For everybody. We’re not saying do away with profit. We’re not trying to dictate prices. That’s not what we’re asking. What we’re asking is why in God’s name the people of this country pay more for medicine than anyone else in the world?” His eyes dropped. “I looked into that,” she said, “and that’s true.” She wasn’t sure how clear she was, but it was too late to worry. “So, set up a meeting with all the top muckety-mucks and discuss that. Find some way to work on that. All of you.” She was looking down on him, and he was not looking up at her.
“You kidnapped me,” he said. He didn’t look up. “You kidnapped me to propose this foolishness?”
Lima stepped closer, waited until his gaze lifted. “Exactly,” she said. She stared down and watched him stare up and when he’d had enough and looked away, she smiled. “You know all these hearings they have? You know, about health care and hospitals and insurance and drugs? All them hearings and all the hand-wringing, and all the yakkity-yak from experts? Like they know just what to do and how to do it and what’s it gonna cost and how they’re working it out?” He didn’t look up. “We’re not talking about that, Mr. Barton. Not tonight. There’s folks in this country need help. We’re asking you and ones just like you to figure ways to fix it. Ways people can afford their prescriptions and all. Get the bigshots together. Surely you all got enough brainpower to come up with something.” She was starting to feel the chill. “Kidnap you? Sure did. What the hell, you’ll be free in the morning, and you’ll never hear from us again because this here is your one chance. We’re asking you—telling you, I suppose—to get your CEO buddies together and make things more affordable. We got no clue how to make that work. That’s on you. You and them others. You’re the ones with the brains, right?”
“I’m cold,” Barton said.
She sniffed. “Yeah, it’s coolin’ down,” she said. Then, “You listening?”
He did not respond.
“Look, you and the other big bosses got to take a long hard look at drug costs and see what you can do. That’s it. Please. Put it in the newspapers. Go on TV. Tell everybody what you’re doing. That’s an idea, ain’t it? Tell everybody you’re concerned about the country, about the people. Hell, get a tax break or something, we don’t care. If it helps, tell how you were kidnapped and half buried and how you came to understand you had to do something about the whole mess. You need to make a profit to stay alive? That’s okay! Everybody understands that. Tell how much it costs to be in business. We ain’t fighting that. Then show how you want to reduce costs and…”
“Won’t work,” Barton said. He raised his voice. “This is a pipe dream.”
She sniffed, looked at him and frowned. “Pipe dream? We’re not debating that.” She looked away, scratched at the back of her neck. “Pipe dream? I guess so. But we had to start somewhere. We’re not going to the government, okay? Like that’s never been tried. We’re not getting lawyers to fight, either. Hell, you got legal departments sitting around just waiting for something to do. Would that do us any good?”
“You are going about this…”
She kicked dirt at him. It landed on his chest, and he looked up like a hurt child.
“I’m not done,” she said. “I’m not asking you to…” she stopped, put her hands on her hips, puffed out her cheeks and exhaled. “We’re not asking you to bankrupt yourself. We don’t need you going out of business. Just find some way to lower prices, that’s all. Tell everybody. Go on TV and tell about this here, tonight. I don’t care. I’m telling you what we’re doing here tonight, it’s not over. Whatever you do, and I hope you do the right thing, but whatever you do, this is not over. We’re not crying to politicians no more, or hiring lawyers, or picketing your businesses. We’re done writing letters. We know who the bigshots are. Where they live. We are not negotiating. I am telling you the entire health industry is under investigation by people you’ll never see coming and who have no desire to harm you but have every intention of making their presence and their desires and their pain felt. Understand?”
Barton listened. That’s what they wanted, wasn’t it? Him listening? His eyes were closed and he’d heard it all and he had absolutely no idea what to do about any of it.
Lima walked to Barton, dropped down to one knee in front of him and said, “My name is Becky,” she said, “and there’s a lot of us, Mr. Barton, that worked as hard as anybody, that showed up for work and did our work and didn’t complain. We don’t want much more than what we already have, but we’d like to hold on to that, and our dignity.”
Barton watched her, trying to determine what was true and if any of it mattered. Did she really think he could change things? Did these people realize it was simply not possible? “You’re not making sense,” he said.
“Sense?” She laughed and wiped at her nose. “Putting you in a hole in the ground and hoping you’ll listen? That make sense?” She laughed again. She got down on a knee again, stared into his face. “Kidnapped you? Hell, we could have killed you hours ago and your body would be wrapped in canvas and bound for somewhere else right now. We could have done that. Don’t think that idea never came up.”
She stood up, took a few steps and picked up the trowel, walked back and dropped it in front of him. “You’re gonna have to dig yourself out,” she said. “That’ll give you some time to think.” Barton picked up the trowel, looked up at his captor and shook his head.
“Dig yourself out, Mr. Barton. There’s folks trying to dig out of their hole and never will. Can’t afford to live and can’t die. Avoid seeing the doctor they can’t afford to avoid the prescription they can’t afford. Think about that.”
“Listen…”
Lima shook her head, said “Stop,” and stood silently, watching Daniel Barton search for words.
“You listen,” she said. “I wrote letters and emails to companies like yours, letters to politicians. I got notes on telephone calls I’ve made. None of it mattered.” She hiccupped and he looked up and saw she had one hand on her mouth, eyes looking up. She held that pose a long time, her trying to be silent.
“I can’t afford my medicine,” she said. She looked down at him, and she stepped closer and repeated the same line. Then she turned, walked away, composed herself and walked back to stop in front of him.
“I’m a canary in a coal mine,” she said. “Becky Simonds is my name.” She sighed, dropped her hands to her sides, watched him, and wondered how long it would take to walk out to the road where a car was waiting to take her to an interstate rest stop where another car was waiting to take her home, two states away.
She looked at the tree line to her right, thinking she had a fifteen-minute walk in the woods and she shivered. She looked down at Daniel Barton and said, “Now you’re a canary, too.”
She turned and walked and Barton watched her until she disappeared, then he started digging.
Mike November Oscar
It took six days for law enforcement to locate Becky Simonds, and on the seventh day she was arrested, and the story of the kidnapping of a pharmaceutical executive who was partially buried in a national forest and exhorted to lower the costs of his products made international news. That TV report was seen by Edward Kinney (who lived just over an hour from Simonds), who contacted Randall Woodson (two states away), who contacted Rita Parker (one state north of Woodson). Those three had never spoken before. In their brief communications they used these names: Mike, November, Oscar. The message they shared: Activate Step Two.
That message was shared, in turn, with eight others: Papa, Quebec, Romeo, Sierra, Tango, Uniform, Victor, Whiskey.
* * *
The following spring, the Chief Operating Officer of a growing chain of midwestern hospitals was pulled over by police on her way to work. Yvette Pawley, fifty-four years old, would not be seen again for four days, when she would be found walking on Interstate 40, an hour east of Amarillo, Texas, wearing the same clothes she’d disappeared in. Her husband, a wealthy farmer, immediately posted a $150,000 reward for information leading to an arrest and conviction.
Less than a week later, Abel Ross of Sterling, Colorado, was arrested and identified by Yvette Pawley as ‘Whiskey,’ the last captor she had contact with.
An insurance company executive was grabbed in Tennessee three days after Ross was arrested. He spent 48 hours in captivity. One week later the owner of a medical testing facility in Arizona was grabbed, detained, questioned, lectured, and walked through his own accounting information for two days before his release. During a televised press conference he asked, “how in the world could these people acquire my firm’s complete accounting records and tax returns?”
Networks started running evening specials about the events, interviewing abductees and their families, doing background on those arrested. Law enforcement, psychiatrists and psychologists, doctors, social activists, politicians, historians, journalists of all stripes—were all invited on-air to weigh in on the phenomenon. Arrests continued. “In-depth” reports were broadcast. Books were being written.
Then it stopped.
The silence lasted eighteen months.
Eighteen months later, in the middle of a cold snap, abductions occurred in each of the 48 contiguous states, all on the same day. Abductees were financiers and money managers, healthcare and insurance executives, educators, economists, manufacturers, lawyers, a doctor or two, several nurses, a journalist … every individual connected in some way to healthcare. Every abductee was held for 24 hours, asked to brainstorm ways to reduce the cost of healthcare in the United States, and released.
Those brainstorm sessions were videotaped, and most subjects were perfectly willing—eager, even—to discuss their various enterprises. It was evident in the give-and-take of the conversations that no one was forced to say something they didn’t want to say. Questions were sharp and answers sharper. Tempers flared. Voices were raised, fists pounded, language got more than a bit salty, but the conversations were always steered back to improving healthcare and addressing costs.
Those videos were posted on the internet twenty-four to forty-eight hours after all abductees were released. Those videos became a global sensation.
Twenty-four hours after that, every individual involved in the forty-eight abductions notified the media they would be surrendering to law enforcement and provided the time and place of their surrender.
Twenty-four hours after that, at surrender, each individual provided law enforcement and attending media with their current health care status, their health requirements, prescription drugs used, and copies of billing statements for every doctor, hospital, operation, procedure and prescription drug they’d ever received. All turned up at the precise time promised and, as pointed out by newscasters, all were smiling broadly when offering up their wrists for handcuffs.
They all wore black sweatshirts, a bright yellow canary on the front. All refused legal counsel, and insisted they were of sound mind, guilty of crime, and were more than willing to spend the remaining days of their lives behind bars.
Victor Kreuiter’s stories have appeared in Literally Stories, Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine, Tough, Every Day Fiction, Sou’wester, The Windhover, Bewildering Stories, Halfway Down The Stairs, Rock and a Hard Place, Del Sol SFF Review, Mystery Tribune, Yellow Mama, Straylight Literary Magazine and other online and print publications. His story, “Miller and Bell,” originally appearing in Mystery, was included in The Mysterious Bookshop Presents the Best Mystery Stories of 2023.
