A reason to kill, p.57
A Reason To Kill, page 57
“It gets so you don’t notice?”
“Must do a hell of a job on your sex life?”
“Now, there, Jas, even I draw the line.” He grinned as he nodded in the negative. “Four in a bed could prove uncomfortable. Where’s Colleen?”
“My mom’s silly idea of a chaperone? You know girls, couple hours on a plane and they got to shower or whatever. She and Dee went on to the hotel. We’re supposed to join them. You want a drink first?”
“Bit early. Let’s wait ‘til we pick the girls up.”
Jason leaned forward to whisper, “What about them?” as he motioned towards the bodyguards.
“They’re very discreet. Trust me. I’ll teach you how to handle these situations.” Stewart dropped a ten pound note on the table as they rose; when Jason started to protest, he waved it off with, “You’re my guest.”
As the bodyguards fell instep behind them, the teenager fought an urge to strut. In his mind he whistled, Hup—two-three-four. He winked as they passed by David Martin toying with a beer at the service bar.
~~~
Jason Connors had not been overly concerned by the weird events that brought him to this place. ‘It was all part of the game’ Deirdre had assured before abandoning him to the care of strangers. Most of the guys who ushered him along on his cross-country jaunt hadn’t been too bad and it beat hell out of the prison situation he’d escaped. Of course the character that drove him from Jersey to Kennedy looked to be right out of the Godfather movie. But then there was David Martin waiting for him and his mild scare evaporated in the presence of the familiar face.
His involvement in the continuing antics that spelled like a spy thriller, kept him too entranced to contemplate the outcome until now. Still, he wasn’t all that worried for he had David Martin’s promise, ‘We won’t really hurt the pompous ass,’ overshadowing his growing doubts. Now, as the man in camouflage and ski mask yanked Stewart Sheppard to a sitting position and began striking him repeatedly across the face. Jason complained, “Why’s he got to be so rough?”
“Davy’s just tryin’ ta bring him around.” Rory Hanlon said.
As he watched the abuse of the prisoner, suddenly Martin’s promise didn’t set so easily in Jason’s mind. “You won’t kill him?”
“Lord, no, lad,” was followed by Hanlon’s nasty laugh. “What use would he be to us dead? We’re gonna make him a movie star.”
~~~
Within the perfect replica of a jail cell, Stewart Sheppard slumped on the edge of the hard cot, cradling his throbbing head in nearly numb hands. His tormentor slapping his cheeks caused the pain to increase and he tried to hide his face within his arms.
Then his tormentor grabbed his hair, forced his head to tilt, and poured liquid into his mouth. Gagging, he shoved away the creature’s hand and lurched to his feet only to stagger against the bars. His fingers touched cold steel and he groaned in disbelief. His nervous eyes darted around the cell to rest on the hidden face of the other man. He stammered, “Who? Why?” through a cottony mouth. Shivering began on his chilled flesh and he realized he was nearly naked.
His captor jerked a tattered blanket from the cot and tossed it to him. Quickly, he snatched the offering before it touched the filthy floor and wrapped himself then slumped against the cold metal cage.
“Why in hell did you take his clothes?” Jason yelped.
“Dressed up dummy,” Hanlon said, “wouldn’t fit the image we’re trying to create. We want his momma to see all of her precious on film. Come on.” He firmly pushed the boy towards the exit. “We’ll catch the show later, when he’s had a chance to fully come to.”
Taking a last guilty peek over his shoulder, Jason asked. “You’re sure he can’t see us?”
“All he can see is that one side of the cell is a mirrored wall. Unless he’s stupid, he’ll figure it’s a one-way mirror, but he’s no clue as to who’s on the other side. Now let’s go eat. I promised you a two inch steak.”
“He can’t hear me?” dropped to a whisper.
“Lad,” Hanlon snickered. “He can’t even smell you.” He shoved Jason out the door.
~~~
Better than two inches and rare, the man watched in amazement as this wealthy youth gorged himself on the beef. “Sure, they been starving you, lad?” Had a ring of surprise.
Jason Connors garbled through large bites. “After the dog food at school that some bastard wouldn’t let you finish half the time.” He quickly refilled his mouth. “And drivers never stopping for much more than a hot dog and with the portion control on the plane, I could eat a cow.” His nearly empty plate proved it.
Hanlon cut better than half of the meat he hadn’t touched yet and dropped it on the boy’s plate. Jason thought to protest, but when Hanlon ordered, “Eat up,” he gratefully did.
~~~
After supper, Jason suffered through an hour of British television. He couldn’t concentrate. He couldn’t stop from thinking about Stew in that crummy cell.
Jason had known his older brother’s friend for years and unlike most of RJ’s crowd, Stew had never been domineering and obnoxious. In fact the prime minister’s son had been an all right guy.
The conversation he’d had with Deirdre as they fled on their late night drive into Georgia was sparked with laughter and excitement as she filled him in on the arrangements. The IGA was staging his kidnapping, not only to rescue him but also to create sympathy for his dad. “Why in hell should you be subjected to all that crap at the academy,” she’d said. “Your dad’s only worried what effect you dropping out will have on his chances. Our way, nobody suffers.” He was tired and slightly drunk and it had all seemed like such a lark.
On the trip over to Heathrow from Kennedy, David Martin made him a party to the rest of the plan. “A game.” Davy assured him. “We’re going to take this opportunity to put some heavy duty pressure on the Brits. If it looks like there’s more to your kidnapping than financial gain, that English bitch is going to have to do a fast shuffle backwards.”
All of it had sounded like fun. Nobody was going to be hurt; in fact if the IGA triumphed at lot of people were going to be helped. Jason was having a little difficulty now, keeping that idea in mind. He had attempted to enter the viewing room earlier, only to have David Martin chase him off. He sent him to his own room with the order, “Stay away from the viewing room. I gave you my word didn’t I?”
And Jason thought, Shit! Things hadn’t changed much for him it was just someone else doing the bossing. This place was ending up a drag.
He began to wander, hunting for something to do; he decided to take a quick peek in on Stew to reassure himself. Before he even opened the door, he heard wretched sounding laughter from within.
The light from the hall caught a swiftly turning David Martin yelling at him, “I told you to stay out of here.”
“Why? What’s so funny?” Jason ducked around him. While the viewing room was in total darkness, the special wall was radiant with light from the cell. He could see Stewart, having lost his blanket, stamping angrily around the cell making miserable faces.
Martin grabbed Jason’s arm and gave him a yank as he ordered, “Out! You don’t care to watch this.”
“Let him stay.” Hanlon intervened. “It’s a good show.”
And then, Jason’s eyes having accommodated for the unequal balance of light, saw what they were laughing at. He hissed in disbelief. “Roaches! You put roaches in there.” As around him other men continued to enjoy the sight of the prisoner squashing the crawling insects beneath his bare feet.
“It’s only a con, lad,” Hanlon said. “I told ya we’re doing a flick. A few minutes, what he don’t kill we will. Good exercise for him; look at him move that royal ass.”
“Take a walk, Jas.” Martin tried to prevail on him.
But Jason snapped a hard, “No!” as another jump suited, ski masked character, stepped up to Stewart’s cell bars.
With a single finger the man motioned and slide a gray metal plate in an opening in the bars. The prisoner had backed up several paces at the approach but as the man moved off, he cautiously stepped forward to raise the plate. He held it only an instant then flung it. It hit the mirrored wall splashing a mess of red, white and brown garbage—creamy maggots wiggled with the flow.
Jason own full stomach rebelled. A fist jammed into his mouth, he fled the sound of more foul laughter.
David Martin caught the boy coming from the toilet and said. “Heck of a waste of good beef.”
“Why are you doing that shit?” burst from Jason’s raw throat.
“Easy lad.” Martin cast his arm around Jason’s shoulders giving him an affectionate squeeze. “No real harm is being done. It’s playtime—I told you that. It looks bad but it’s all for show.”
“It’s damn gross!”
“Sure it is.” Martin, pressed a Kleenex into the young hand. “Blow your nose.”
“Why can’t you just hold on to Stew like you are me?”
“Cause the English are a tougher nut to crack. Your father will worry over a whimper in your voice, not the English. Now go find something to occupy yourself, might try a bit of studying.” He smiled. “Your friend will be decently fed. He won’t spend a single night in that cell.”
“You’re sure?”
“Right. I’ll see they don’t get carried away with the game.”
Chapter 105
England, 1984
As the drugs wore off and Stewart Sheppard became more aware of his surroundings, he desperately attempted to sort out the blurred details of his kidnapping. His first concern was for the young Americans. Had the girls returned to the suite? He couldn’t remember seeing them. The Connors boy? They must have grabbed Jason too. God I hope they didn’t kill the boy. How had it happened? He’d had a scotch? He’d poured it himself—No, Jas had given it to him.
He thought about his bodyguards. Jake and Avon had tea. Avon made the tea. Colleen? The note she’d left, be right back—but the note could have been faked. They could have settled with the girls even before we arrived.
Continuing to struggle with his hazy memory, the sudden appearance of the roaches, the disgusting grub—
He brought himself under control and rationalized that the pranks, while disgusting, were actually harmless. Realizing he was being observed through the mirrored wall, he decided not to add further to their entertainment. Ignoring the remaining bugs and stink from the slop, he laid down on the cot. A sudden cold was causing him to shiver again but he couldn’t bring himself to reclaim the blanket that had been his first weapon against the roaches—some of their squashed remains were clinging to it.
Soon, though he fought it, he was plagued by the need to urinate and was forced to seek relief. Lacking any other facility he moved to the filthy white enamel pail set in one corner. A fast glance into the wretched thing and he made a face and turned away. Then a sharp warning in his kidney brought him back. Still he couldn’t do it and turned away. The body being a demanding master, he was again looking into the disgusting pail and on this final try he closed his eyes and accomplished the feat.
~~~
In the viewing room, Rory Hanlon gave a cheer at the sight and sound of the gushing yellow stream hitting the enamel. While David Martin informed him, “Man, you’re one sick bastard. I’m going after a beer. You want one?”
“Got any stout?”
“Truman’s ale, that or whiskey?”
“The ale. Should bring our guest a brew,” Hanlon said. “Then he could give us a second pee.” His vile laughter faded with the slamming door.
Without an audience, the mirth in Hanlon’s eyes disappeared as quickly as his laughter. He was remembering another youth who came to in a cold damp cell. This lad is somewhat luckier, he thought. That other lad had been a mite younger, with dried blood clogging his airway, a body stiff and sore with pain, his balls throbbed so bad he couldn’t close his legs and it burned like fire when he pissed.
That Rory Hanlon at nineteen had ceased to be young. He never again played ball nor danced on a Saturday night nor kissed a lass. Always, ‘Mister this’ and ‘Mister that’. So fuckin’ polite. He turned, startled by the sound of the opening door.
“Your beer?” Martin eyed him strangely. “You got twenty minutes left,” he said as he handed him the bottle. “Sheppard don’t get into doing something interesting we call it a night.”
“You been promoted lad?”
“Don’t care to have them bugs spreading.” Martin answered. “Nor will him getting sick pay off. You dropped the temperature too soon.”
“Guess you’re right. Might as well wrap it up.” Flicking off the camera, Hanlon paused to finish his beer.
Donning masks they headed for the hallway. Passing a guard, Martin ordered, “Fix him something to eat. We’re bringing him out.”
“You want help?”
“For one English prick?”
~~~
With the cot now invaded by roaches, Stewart had crawled into the furthest corner of the cell. He crouched there with his knees drawn into his belly and his arms wrapped around them for warmth. Almost hypnotically he watched troops of roaches gorge themselves on what he believed to be his supper. When the masked creatures entered, he looked up but didn’t attempt to rise. As one grabbed his arm, he mumbled a complaint that was ignored as he was yanked to his feet.
“Keep it shut,” Martin ordered as he shoved the captive through the open bars and propelled him down the narrow hall. On reaching the bath, he motioned the prisoner into the shower stall.
It was a grateful Stewart who turned the knob on the faucet. He let the water run hot trying to replace the chill in his bones. Steam billowed up clearing his aching head while rich lather cleansed away the insults to his flesh. Soon he felt human enough to protest when the water was abruptly shut off. Over-riding his complaint Martin tossed him a towel. When a clean robe followed Stewart recovered enough normal courage to ask, “What’s this all about?”
Receiving no answer he groaned, “IRA?” Still the men said nothing. One simply motioned for him to follow while the other fell in step behind.
~~~
In another room he attempted to seek warmth by the stove but was grabbed from behind and shoved into a chair at a table. Decent food was placed before him and he discovered a raging hunger. Someone uncorked and handed him a beer. He started to say thanks only to be cut short by an unpleasant grunt.
Normally he disliked ale, now it felt smooth and cool in his dry throat. The light fry of sausage, eggs, and chips, was English enough to help still a concern that he’d been removed from his homeland. He longed to ask after the girls, young Jason, but the cruel ice-blue stare that watched him from across the table kept his questions inside. He’d barely emptied his plate, when this man lurched to his feet with the order to follow. Obediently he did.
Lead to another tiny cubicle, where there was no window, he thanked the Almighty for the room possessed a decent cot with clean sheets and blankets. He needed no urging to collapse willingly on the mattress. Then he saw the hypodermic held by the approaching man and begged, “Please don’t start me on drugs. It can’t be information you’re wanting. I have nothing to give.” It caught in his throat as the other man shoved him on his stomach, holding him against the mattress.
He jerked at the prick in his hip and prayed it was only something to keep him quiet. As his limbs became too heavy to move, he barely noticed the bottle being hung in place and the ordered, “Hold up on the heavy stuff. We’ll send the youngster away in the morning before we start. No sense listening to him whine if something goes wrong.”
Chapter 106
New York City, 1984
The storm that descended was like the coming of an Ice Age. Originating in Canada it swept across the north-east into the central and western States bombarding the country with rain turning into sleet and hail. By 5:00pm Eastern Time the vast majority of Americans conceded defeat to the freezing weather; consoling themselves with a flick of a TV switch and the pleasure of central heating.
The men nervously milling about the office of Senator John Connors were not concerned by the early cold. They were feeling chills not caused by the weather.
“Can’t turn my mind blank,” John Connors said to his confidants. He collapsed at his desk after some initial pacing and cursing as the information was shared. His normally stiff shoulders slumped, his bent elbows rested on the desk, and he held his forehead in the palms of his hands. “Do you think I can concentrate on the election? Do you think I can forget he’s my son and what they might be doing to him?”
“Damn it!” his cousin Brad Fitzgerald seemed at a loss with what to do with his fists, so he jammed them in his pockets.
Thomas Devlin spun from watching the hail pelting the window to face the small group dwarfed by the size of the room. “You do what they ask, John, and you’re finished in politics. You’ll go down in the history books all right, the first candidate to concede defeat before the voters got to the polls.”
Accepting a scotch from John Connors’ eldest son RJ, he stalked across the room and set it on the desk untasted. He laid his hand on Connors’ shoulder as he continued. “Do what they want and you gain nothing? Face it John, the boy is likely dead.”
“You’re that certain?”
Devlin’s expression mimicked the anger is the faces of the other men present. Then a touch of compassion softened his tone as he admitted. “You’re damned if you do or damned if you don’t. Sorry John, I can’t give you the answer on this one.”
“Really Tom.” Came as a nasty hiss from John’s younger brother William. “I thought you always had the answer?”
As if to ignore William, Devlin reclaimed his scotch and took a healthy swig.
Judge Bradley Fitzgerald brushed away the offer of a fresh drink as RJ continued serving. Drawing nervous fingers through his hair, he asked, “Tom? The British must have more than they’re giving us?”
