~ Takeover ~

A Nowhere Man Story

By Marjorie Brashier

He smiled and thanked Angela as she filled his cup for the third time. He'd sat at the end of the scarred counter for nearly an hour now, contemplating his coffee as if he expected to find the answer to some vital question in its depths. Not that she minded. The diner was half empty and they didn't need the stool. And she could think of worse things to look at than this handsome stranger with brown wavy hair and soulful face. Something in his expression had frightened her at first, a hard, brittle look darkening his blue eyes, but the sudden, unexpected warmth of his smile made him look younger and less intimidating. She'd tried to get his attention, tossing her head a little as she spoke to him so the sparkling gold earrings would bring out the luster of her thick, black hair and bending low over the counter to pour his coffee, the tight peasant blouse exposing her ample cleavage. But he barely seemed to notice her, nodding politely and returning to his thoughts. Mannie, the manager, noticed. He motioned her into the kitchen and gave her hell for neglecting two of her tables to flirt with some deadbeat who'd only ordered coffee. She bit off an angry retort and said she'd go take care of the tables.

Thomas Veil picked up his coffee cup and sipped absently, wincing with surprise. It was cold and bitter. How long had he sat here thinking about everything and nothing? He'd even lost track of where he was, wondering from town to town, trying to stay one step ahead of them, not even sure if they were still after him. He'd came out west three months ago because of a lead that FBI Assistant Director Robman had been transferred to Reno, but that trail had quickly gone dead. Since then he'd kept on the move, vainly hoping for some clue to find Robman while he tried to work out a plan to find out who he was and what they had done to him.

Turning on his stool to look for the pretty dark-haired waitress who had been so attentive earlier, he noticed a newspaper lying folded next to the empty plate of the truckdriver who had left a short while before. Tom idly picked it up and unfolded it while Angela hurriedly filled his cup and moved back down the counter with a guilty glance at the manager. It was a local paper, the top story describing a fight at the city council meeting where several members shouted profanities at each other. Tom shook his head and moved on to the bottom of the page. "Radisson Returns for Hometown Wedding" the headline proclaimed over a paparazzi-type photo of a couple getting into a limousine. The man was in his late 40s, his hair just starting to gray about the temples, elegantly trim in a black tuxedo. The photographer caught him by surprise, but his companion was quicker. Hand upraised to block the camera and her body twisting away, her features were blurred and nearly concealed.

Tom drew in a sharp breath and held the paper closer, trying to make out the features of the woman in the photo. He laughed weakly, silently chiding himself for letting his imagination get away from him. Was he going to see Alyson everywhere he looked for the rest of his life? Yet, in spite of the shoulder-length blond hair, he could swear that the woman in the picture was Alyson. No matter how obscured, those features were indelible from his mind. How could they not be, when he had loved her so deeply, then hated her for her deception and betrayal? Taking a breath to steady himself, he read the short caption next to the photograph: "James B. Radisson, CEO and chief shareholder of Radisson Aviation, the nation's fourth largest defense contractor, has returned home for his wedding to Serena Mueller. Radisson Aviation is currently involved in negotiations with an east-coast conglomerate trying to buy the corporation. See page 1 of the Business Section."

Tom leafed through the paper, searching for the business section. The article there was brief, but filled with detail. The conglomerate attempting to buy Radisson Aviation was headed by Henry W. Milton, director of a corporate empire that included HG Hemden, the nation's seventh largest defense contractor. Gaining control of Radisson would move them up to third, breathing down the neck of the second leading contractor. Radisson so far had refused to sell, fending off a takeover bid in a heated stockholders' meeting. Milton had fallen far short in swinging the vote and lacked enough shares to force a sale. The immediate threat having been dealt with, Radisson had enough breathing space to return to his hometown to wed Serena Mueller, a native of Hartford, Connecticut, who had lived abroad for the last three years and met Radisson at a reception in London. Following the weekend wedding, the couple would honeymoon on Radisson's private yacht, sailing to an undisclosed destination. Radisson and his top executives were reportedly working furiously at his local office to solidify his control of the company, but the CEO would take time away from his business affairs to host a garden party tomorrow night to introduce his fiancee to the local elite.

Tom got up and tossed a couple dollars on the counter. Carrying the paper with him, he left the diner.

------------------------

James Radisson looked up in frustration as the intercom beeped on his desk. Shoving an untidy stack of papers aside, he pressed a button and brusquely asked, "Yes? What is it?"

Martha replied, "I'm sorry to disturb you, Mr. Radisson, but there's a gentleman here who says he has an appointment to see you. It's not on your schedule, but he said you had agreed to see him. Ben Roberts of the Chronicle."

Radisson exclaimed, "Oh, hell! Yeah, he called this morning but I completely forgot about it. All right, send him in."

When Martha ushered Tom into his office, Radisson rose to shake Tom's hand and affably greeted him. "As I explained earlier, Mr. Roberts, this is a very busy week for me. I can only spare you a few minutes."

"I understand that," Tom replied, smiling. "I appreciate your taking the time to see me. I'm writing an article on the attempted purchase of Radisson Aviation by Henry Milton's conglomerate and there a few questions I'd like to ask you about it."

"I'll answer what I can, but with the matter still unresolved, there is a strict limit on what I can discuss."

Tom went over the basic facts he'd read in the newspaper, augmented by what he had gleaned from other newspapers at the public library. Radisson merely nodded, confirming the bare bones account Tom had put together. 'That's all public record, Mr. Roberts. Surely you had more on your mind than that when you asked to see me."

"Why are you so determined not to sell?" Tom asked.

Radisson folded his hands on the desktop and leaned forward. "There are two answers to that question. The first is that this company has been in my family for 65 years. It was founded by my grandfather, who passed it on to my father, and if I should be fortunate enough to have a son, I intend to pass it on to him. We've always taken pride in designing and manufacturing quality products that we can be proud to associate our name with. This company matters very much to me and I will fight to hold on to it."

"The other answer is off the record. Understood?"

Tom nodded.

Radisson continued, "Henry W. Milton is a snake. The man's ethically and morally corrupt. Among his holdings is a biochemical company that developed a toxin that somehow found its way to Iraq. His Cayman Island accounts are bloated with the graft he skims off of every deal his conglomerate is involved in. Even if Radisson Aviation was on the verge of going bankrupt, I wouldn't sell to Henry Milton to save it."

"Now will that be all? I really do have a lot of work to do."

"How about some names and facts?" Tom asked. "I'll keep you off the record, but you have to give me something to get started with in confirming what you've told me about Milton."

Radisson waved his hand in dismissal. "You'll never prove it. He covers his tracks too well. But if you want to try, I'd forget about the graft and concentrate on Sandro Biochemicals. Look back to 1992 and a researcher named James Li."

Tom thanked him and jotted down the name and date. "You came back here to get married, didn't you?"

"That's right," Radisson replied. "It means a lot to my mother to have me come back to my home parish to get married. And while my work often keeps me away, I've always considered this city home."

"How did you meet your fiancee?"

"I was in London for an international conference of aviation executives. Friends had invited me to a reception at their castle. Serena came as a date of a London barrister, but she and I only had eyes for each other. He was really quite decent about it, taking it well when Serena left with me. We saw each other every night I was in England and by the end of the week, we were deeply in love. She's a very special woman."

Tom worked the binding of the notebook in his fingers, looking down at the carpet as he searched for what to say. Finally, he lifted his head and looked Radisson in the eye, "You won't want to hear this, but Serena Mueller is not who you think. Your life could be in danger if you marry her."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Radisson snorted. "Just what do you think you know about Serena?"

"If I told you how I know this, you wouldn't believe me. You'd think I was crazy. But her name's not Serena Mueller and she hasn't been living abroad for years. She's a very dangerous woman. Don't marry her without checking her out."

"Good God, man! Do you think my aides haven't done that already? I'm the CEO of a major defense contractor with top-secret contracts with the Pentagon! I need to know about anyone I get involved with. Everything she's told me has checked out. Her family, education, residences-- it's all there. You can check the records for yourself."

"No," Tom protested. "I mean, I believe what you say, but the records had to have been faked. I knew her for three years and her name wasn't Serena Mueller."

"I've heard just about enough," Radisson snapped. "Whatever you're trying to smear her with, her record's clean; she has nothing to hide. In three days, I intend to marry Serena Mueller and we're going to have a long, happy life together. Now get the hell out of my office!"

Tom rose to his feet. "I know you don't believe me, but please, be careful. Your life is in danger."

Radisson pressed the intercom button, "Martha, call security!"

Tom stepped toward the door. "That won't be necessary. I'm going."

The intercom still open, Radisson said, "You can hold off on that, Martha. Mr. Roberts is just leaving. Get me the editor of the Chronicle on the line."

Before closing the door behind him, Tom quietly intoned, "Don't trust her, Radisson. Keep your eye on anyone who comes near her."

"Get out!" Radisson shouted. He balefully watched the door click shut. The telephone buzzed softly.

"Louis!" he snapped. "What the hell kind of reporters are you hiring nowadays? ... Ben Roberts! He just left my office. Let me tell you-- ... What do you mean, he's been in the hospital for a week?"

--------

The blonde hair on the pillow beside him shimmered in the early morning light, bestowing an ethereal beauty on the sleeping woman. Radisson reached over to let a silky strand fall between his fingers, then gently traced the contour of her cheek with the back of his finger. Serena stirred and smiled herself into wakefulness.

"Good morning," he said. "I love watching you wake up."

"Beast!" she playfully replied. "You have years to get tired of it. You could have let me sleep for a little while longer. It's going to be a long day."

"I couldn't face going to the office without spending some time with you. Tonight at the party, we'll barely have a moment alone."

"I'll go make some coffee." She pulled a filmy robe over her deep-cut satin nightgown.

Radisson pulled her back down to sit beside him. "You keep forgetting, Serena. All I have to do is call and have breakfast sent up." He pulled the robe away from one shoulder and kissed the soft, white skin. "But then, there's no hurry for that, is there?"

She gently pushed him away and rose from the bed. "I have a lot to do this morning to get ready for the party. I have to go over the plans with the caterer one more time, pick up my dress-- I can't believe they've taken this long to finish the alterations. Don't frown, darling. After the wedding, you'll have me all to yourself for two weeks at sea."

He swallowed his disappointment and smiled. "I didn't want you to have to do too much for this party. After all, it's in your honor. We hired the best caterer in town; she knows what to do."

"I just want everything to be perfect for you, darling," Serena said. "You've told me how important it is for you to be on good terms with the people in your hometown. I just hope they approve of me. I want you to be proud of me."

"You just be your usual beautiful, intelligent, charming self and they can't help but love you. And if they don't, the hell with them. You're the best thing that's ever happened to me. I love you, Serena, and I always will."

"In a few days, I'll be asking you to put that on the record," she teased. "For better or for worse, till death do we part."

"I'd do that tonight to keep you from getting away," he exclaimed, "but my mother would kill me if I wasn't married in St. Patrick's. Heck, we have everything we need. Judge Dumbarton's one of the guests, the buffet's all arranged, and the Chronicle's sending a photographer."

Serena's face froze. "You didn't tell me you invited the press. I thought this was going to be a private party."

"Serena," he coaxed. "They'll just be here for a short while. It will help the company's image for the town to see us pictured with the local elite. It will make us seem more part of this city if they see us pictured with people they know."

"You should have told me," she insisted. "I hate the thought of having a bunch of vultures at our garden party."

"Serena, I never did understand why such a beautiful woman hates to have her picture taken."

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A five-piece chamber ensemble warmed up on the patio behind the house as the caterers unpacked champagne glasses. Wearing a short, white jacket, Tom was scarcely noticed as he walked past them into the house. Pausing for a moment, he listened for voices, hearing three women cheerfully conversing in Spanish through the doorway he took to be the kitchen's. They chattered on, unaware of his presence. Tom softly climbed the long stairway ahead of him, taking the stairs two at a time. He cautiously pushed open the door to the right of the stairs. A guest room, he guessed, prettily decorated in chintz but lacking the personal touches that make a room look lived in. Facing it was another guest room, this one decorated in a more masculine style with heavy mahogany furniture and flocked teal wallpaper.

Tom traversed the hallway paralleling the stairwell to a pair of sliding French doors curtained in lace-trimmed peach silk. This had to be the master bedroom. He slowly and quietly slid one door open. A woman stood with her back to him in front of a mirrored dressing table, admiring the way the tight black dress hugged the curves of her body as she donned a pair of pendant earrings shimmering with diamonds. Tom grabbed the doorframe to steady himself. He hadn't been wrong. She looked oddly different with blond hair, but there was no question but that it was Alyson.

He must have made a sound when he grabbed for the doorframe, because suddenly her eyes met his in the mirror. She spun about, hissing in surprise, "You! What are you doing here?"

Tom forced himself to still the quaver in his voice, scorning himself for the power she still held over him. "I came to pay my respects to the soon-to-be Mrs. Radisson. But isn't it customary to divorce the first husband before remarrying?"

"You have to get out of here," she said frantically. "If they find out you're here, we'd both be in danger. Please, Tom, go before someone sees you."

"I'll go, but first tell me what's going on," Tom demanded. "What are you up to, Alyson? What do you want from James Radisson?"

"Nothing," she pleaded. "I'm not up to anything. Please, Tom, I just want to start a new life. I love James and I want to be his wife. I've left the organization; I have no part in any of that anymore. But if they see me with you, they'll think I've betrayed them. You have every reason to hate me, but I never meant to hurt you."

She looked so sincere and vulnerable that Tom almost softened. But the memory of the last time they were together, her coldness as she pointed a gun at him and demanded the negatives and the realization that she was never his wife cut through him and hardened his resolve. "Cut the act, Alyson," he ordered. "I've had plenty of opportunity to learn what an accomplished liar you are. Now out with it! What are you after this time?"

She sighed. "It would have been so much easier if you had just left, but you always did have to do things the hard way."

Before Tom could move, she grasped the neckline of her dress and tore it downwards, then screamed frantically for help. Tom made a motion towards her with thoughts of stifling her screams, but she darted backwards out of reach. He could already hear men running through the first-floor passageway. There was another corridor intersecting the main hallway. Could either one lead to stairs? He decided not to chance it, running past Alyson to the balcony off the master bedroom. No stairway here, just smooth white balustrade all around. He contemplated lowering himself over the rail and dropping to the ground below, but the height and flagstone surface below dissuaded him. He could see an exterior set of stairs at the far side of the house. His only chance was to make it back through the bedroom and down the corridor in that direction before Alyson's rescuers arrived.

He tore through the bedroom and spun around the corner. "There's the son-of-a-bitch!" someone shouted, and he was caught in a flying tackle from behind. He rose to his knees and tried to throw the man off, but three of them were on him, pummeling him with punches until they subdued him and pinioned his arms behind him. One of them pulled out a set of handcuffs and cuffed his hands behind him. Alyson wept noisily, demurely holding the torn dress to her shoulder.

"It was so awful," she sobbed. "He broke into my bedroom and tried to force me to do things... When I wouldn't, he started to tear my clothes off."

The man who had handcuffed Tom looked at Alyson with sympathy. "Don't worry, Miss Mueller. We'll see to it that he can't hurt you anymore."

"This is nonsense!" Tom protested. "I never touched her! We were just talking and suddenly she tore her dress and started screaming."

One of the men swung back his fist and punched Tom in the stomach, doubling him over and leaving him gasping for breath. "Shut up, you scum!" he menaced. "It's only too clear what happened."

"Get him out of here," his superior motioned towards the stairs. After Tom was dragged from the room, the man gently put his arm around Alyson's shoulders, asking, "Are you going to be all right, Miss Mueller? It was a terrible thing to happen. Do you want us to call your fiance?"

"No!" she exclaimed sharply. "Please, I don't want to upset him. He has so much to worry about already."

With some relief, he said, "Very well. I'll tell my men to keep this to themselves. And I promise, we'll tighten up security so nothing like this happens again."

Sniffling a little, she smiled and thanked him, looking so fragile and stricken that anger coursed through him anew at the man who had attacked her.

Tom stood leaning slump-shouldered against the wall in the foyer under the eyes of the two security men eagerly watching for a reason to punch him again. Tom's mind reeled, screaming with panic as he tried to think of some way, any way to clear himself. The truth certainly wouldn't cut it: "Excuse me, but that's my wife up there or at least, I thought it was my wife, and I came here to try to save Radisson from whatever she has planned for him." Oh, sure, they were likely to believe that. His ribs ached with the abuse he'd already taken tonight. He wasn't ready for another beating.

The head of security entered the foyer and nodded toward Tom. "The police should be here in a few minutes. We want to keep this quiet, so take him to the side entrance. The trees are thick enough on that side that if anyone sees a police car pull in, they might think it's just extra security for the party."

Tom tried once more. "You're making a mistake. I never touched her."

He was roughly jerked toward the hallway, the cuffs cutting into his wrists. "Save it!" one of the men snapped. "Tell it to the police. We've heard enough out of you."

Just after they reached the side door, a black-and-white patrol car pulled into the drive. The officers looked at Tom with contempt as the security men turned him over. One opened the back door and grabbed Tom's arm to put him in the car.

"I didn't do anything," Tom protested. "She set me up."

One hand on Tom's head, the officer forced him into the car with the other. "Yeah, tell us something we haven't heard before. The jails are full of innocent men."

Tom fell silent, staring straight ahead as the car traveled through the streets. Oddly enough, instead of heading downtown as he expected, the houses seemed to be thinning out and soon they were passing through rolling parkland scattered with groves of trees.

"Where are you taking me?" he asked uneasily.

The driver replied, "You'll find out when you get there. Now, why don't you just sit back and relax. There's nothing you can do about it anyway."

"The police station's downtown!" Tom persisted. "What are we doing out here?"

Neither officer bothered to answer. They simply traded amused looks and drove on in silence.

Deeply alarmed, Tom wondered what kind of mess he had gotten himself into. His situation had looked grim enough when he left the house, expecting to be arrested and thrown in jail, with all evidence and sympathy on Alyson's side. But if they weren't headed to the police station, where were they taking him?

The car slowed at the entrance to a shrubbery-lined curved driveway. Tom had a quick glimpse of an engraved metal sign on a brick foundation: Norcross Psychiatric Facility.

"I'm not crazy!" he exclaimed. "Just take me downtown and I'll confess to everything. You can't just put me in here without a hearing. I haven't even been charged yet."

The driver responded, "The lady's not interested in pressing charges. She doesn't want the scandal to ruin her wedding. But you're a little too dangerous to leave out on the streets."

The car eased to a stop at the foot of a broad, shallow stairway. A doctor waited, flanked by two orderlies. Tom was pulled roughly from the car by an officer. The doctor looked Tom over with an impersonal glance and jotted a few notes on his clipboard. "Would you bring him inside, please?" his voice was soft, with traces of an Eastern European accent.

The police officers just behind, the orderlies close at hand, Tom had no choice but to follow the doctor into the hospital. The lobby was tiny, with only one stiffly padded sofa and a drooping fern in an oversize vase. Norcross didn't appear to encourage visitors.

Past the lobby, the small party turned right, passing through a set of double doors unlocked by the doctor. They proceeded through a small anteroom to enter a room on the left side of the corridor marked "Admitting." One of the orderlies turned to the padded table against the wall and when he turned back, Tom's mouth went dry as he recognized the straitjacket hanging over the man's arm.

"You may remove the handcuffs now," the doctor told the officers. "We'll take care of him from here."

An officer pulled his keys from his pocket, stepping behind Tom to unlock the first cuff. As it clicked free, Tom exploded into action, slamming his elbow backward into the man's face. Grasping one orderly with both hands, he shoved him hard into the other, the two men overbalancing and falling heavily to the floor. The second officer pulled his gun from its holster, but before he could extend his arm, Tom kicked the weapon free. The officer swore at the pain from his crushed fingers but threw himself on top of Tom, who had stooped to reach for the gun of the first officer still dazed by Tom's attack. The cop struggling with Tom managed to roll him over onto his back, pressing his forearm hard against his throat. His air slowly cut off, Tom fought to remain conscious as he strained to reach the fallen officer's holster.

Finally, the gun was in his hand and he jerked it over to point it just inches away from the cop's face. The pressure on his neck released as the officer jumped back and got to his feet. Tom rose to his knees, coughing as his lungs filled with air again. He moved the gun around in an arc, making sure to keep all five men in front of him.

"You!" he said to the doctor. "Get over here. Now!"

The doctor hesitated, looking to the officers for help. Their faces set with impotent fury, their eyes were locked on the gun in Tom's hand, looking for a chance to subdue him. Seeing no other choice, the doctor slowly approached Tom.

"Don't even think about it!" Tom shouted, swinging the gun in the direction of an orderly who had stealthily moved a step closer as Tom stood up. The man froze and Tom whirled back to cover the two cops.

"Please, put down the gun and I promise that no one will hurt you," the doctor said, his tones gentle and soothing. "There's no reason to be frightened. We're here to help you."

"I've seen the kind of help you give in these places," Tom snapped. "Come on, Doc. You've got the keys to get out of here. Let's you and I take a trip to the front door."

Wrapping one arm around the doctor's neck, he pressed the barrel of the gun to the man's jaw. Keeping the doctor between him and the officers, they backed across the room.

"Please don't do this," the doctor pleaded. "You're a deeply disturbed man. Let us help you."

Reaching the door, Tom quickly looked to each side. The corridor was clear. Pulling the doctor with him, he backed down the corridor, keeping his eye on the door to Admitting, but shooting quick glances behind him at the path to the double doors. They were nearly there, the doors just five feet away, when Tom felt a stabbing pain in his side. He tried to force his feet to continue to move towards the doors, but something was wrong. They refused to obey his orders and he lurched to one side, his vision blurring as he clumsily tried to grab the doctor's arm when he jerked away. Another man was there, staying out of Tom's reach. Tom's eyes wouldn't focus, but he realized the object in his hand must be a syringe. He fought off waves of vertigo, pressing his hands to his head, the sound of the gun hitting the floor echoing in deafening crescendos. His legs would no longer support him and he slowly crumpled to the floor.

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The rubber wheels of the dinner cart squeaked softly as it was wheeled down the tiled hallway. It was a low sound, but Tom found it irritating. He sat in the recreation room, listlessly watching two men play backgammon. After the first few days, they had removed the straitjacket. Dr. Silvany had praised Tom for learning to control his violent impulses. At first, it had been a struggle to contain his rage at finding himself at their mercy once more, trapped inside another of their hospitals. He wanted to shout at them, to fight any way he could, but he would find no chance for escape confined to his room, trussed in a straitjacket. So he had swallowed his rage and forced himself to remain even-tempered even through a battery of inane psychological tests.

It didn't seem so hard anymore controlling his temper. He felt calmer than he had in a long time. He wondered vaguely how long he had been there. He was a little bothered that he couldn't remember how he got there, but when he tried to concentrate too hard on anything, he lost the thread of what he was thinking about and his mind wandered to something else.

He studied the cuff of his robe, fascinated by the blend of colors as navy blue blended into red. If he held his arm up a little to catch the sunlight, the geometric pattern seemed to flow on its own, like a neon advertising sign. Puzzled, he held his hand in front of his eyes to look closer at a bruised area surrounding a small puncture mark on the back. He couldn't remember how he got it, but he was sure it wasn't there the day before.

He dozed off, his head lolling as he dreamed pleasant dreams of Alyson. Had she came to see him yesterday? He couldn't remember, but he had this feeling that he had seen her recently. He hoped she was taking good care of Newt. That dog always missed him when he was away. He saw himself entering the house in Evanston, Alyson turning towards him with a welcoming smile. He hung his jacket on the rack beside the door and reached out to take her in his arms. But something was wrong. Suddenly her face was hard, brittle anger in her eyes as she held a pistol in both hands and pointed it at him. Sweat broke out on his brow as he tried to shut out the memory of her voice: "I will kill you, Tom!"

Someone had hold of his arm and was shaking it firmly. "Roberts," the voice was quiet but urgent. "Roberts, or whatever your name is, wake up!"

Tom opened his eyes slowly; as terrible as it was to relive the nightmare, he felt rooted to the scene, helpless to tear himself away. But the shaking wouldn't go away and he couldn't shut out the man's voice, ordering him to wake up and calling him Roberts.

"Tom," he said dazedly as he straightened in the chair. "My name's Tom."

"That must have been one hell of a nightmare, Tom. You looked like the demons of hell were chasing you."

Tom squinted against the sunlight to see the man who sat in the chair beside him. "Radisson?" he asked in surprise.

Radisson leaned close, keeping his voice low. "We may only have a few minutes. They're keeping a close watch on me. This is the first time I've been able to slip away on my own. I thought I really had gone crazy when I saw you sitting here. But then I thought maybe you were doing some kind of undercover story."

"Undercover?" Tom asked confusedly.

"Sure, you lied to see me, told me your name was Roberts. I thought maybe you had yourself committed to write a story about Norcross. You've got to get out now. Tell someone that I'm here. I'm sorry if you'll lose your story, but you're my only hope of getting out of here."

"Sorry," Tom said slowly. "I'm not a reporter. I can't walk out of here any more than you can."

Radisson fell silent, absorbing his disappointment.

"What happened? How did you end up here?" Tom asked him.

"We were on our honeymoon, sailing to Tahiti. Serena wanted it to be just the two of us, just the moon and the stars and the sea. It sounded so romantic when she said it and it started off perfectly-- calm seas, ideal sailing weather, Serena so happy and affectionate. The second night we had a late dinner. The last thing I remember is starting to get undressed for bed. When I woke up, I was here."

"Do you think Serena's here?" his voice rising in panic. "You don't think they've hurt her, do you?"

Tom shook his head. "Don't you see? She's part of this. She helped them do this to you."

"You don't know what you're talking about," Radisson insisted. "You came to warn me that I was in danger and I thank you for that. But I still don't believe that Serena had anything to do with this."

"She's not Serena!" Tom considered how much to tell him and decided it was too soon to say that Alyson had been his wife. "Her name's Alyson. Or maybe even that's a lie. You're not the first person she's deceived and betrayed. She set you up. She probably drugged your drink and watched them take you away."

Seeing the stony denial on Radisson's face, Tom said, "OK, let's forget that for now. We've got to find a way to get out of here."

"Milton!" Radisson suddenly exclaimed.

"What?"

"Henry W. Milton," Radisson said excitedly. "It had to be him. If I disappeared, there wouldn't be anyone left strong enough to fight off a takeover. If we can just get back to my offices, I've got some papers hidden away that would ruin him if they ever saw the light of day. Proof that he sold that toxin to Iraq. He wouldn't dare touch me."

"It's no good," Tom replied. "These people are very thorough. They were probably into your safe before you even set sail."

"They're not in my safe," Radisson said. "We used to play in that building when I was a boy. Quite by accident, I found a hiding place down in the basement. In five years, my brother never found my stash of comic books and marbles. I wasn't sure if I would ever use those papers and I knew it was dangerous to have them in my possession. I didn't want to see them every time I opened my safe."

"Did you tell Serena about your hiding place?"

Tom persisted, ignoring the irritation on Radisson's face. "This is important. Think, man. Does she know about it?"

"No, I never got around to showing it to her," Radisson replied. "Not because I didn't trust her. It just never came up."

"They might be there, then," Tom said. "Are you sure about these papers? That they'll be enough to protect you."

"Iraq is just one of his dirty deals. If those papers became public, Milton would be finished in Washington. Now how are we going to get out of here?"

"I don't know yet," Tom said. "Just be ready. If we see a chance, we'll have to go for it. There may not be time for a lot of planning."

"The sooner the better," Radisson said fervently. "A few more days in here and I really will be climbing the walls. I wake up in the morning and I feel like something must have happened to me during the night, but I don't remember anything."

Tom's mouth went dry and he massaged the back of his hand. He started to say something, but a nurse rounded the corner carrying a tray full of small paper cups.

"Time for your medication," she said cheerfully. Radisson had pulled his chair slightly away and seemed absorbed in the backgammon game.

-------------------------------

Two men dressed in white coats stood watching a monitor in a cluttered office. They saw Tom palm his medication after the nurse turned away. "I'll have to speak to her about that," Dr. Silvany thought to himself. But no real harm done; they'd have to begin easing up on his medication anyway.

Turning to his superior, he tried to sound respectful as he complained, "I still think this is a mistake. To bring them together at this point... How am I to remove the memory of Radisson and Serena from his mind if you introduce the very stimuli I'm trying to erase?"

The Director slammed his hand down on the edge of the desk. "We've been over this before, Lucius. There are other agendas beside your own here. We expected to have more time to prepare Radisson's replacement. But he cut short his honeymoon because of the negotiations for his company. We need to know quickly what he knows and if he can hurt us. Once that's taken care of, you can go back to the Veil project."

"You must understand, he's proven himself to be a very difficult subject, highly resistant to mind control techniques. The normal protocols have not been successful."

"Then I suggest you try abnormal protocols," the Director snapped. "But first we have to deal with Radisson."

-----------------------------------------------

Rico was the youngest orderly on the floor. A handsome kid, he loved to turn on the charm and flirt with the nurses. They seldom took him seriously, but he was so earnest and winning that they didn't mind his outrageous confidence that any woman would come running if he just crooked his finger. Today he leaned over the counter of the nurses' station murmuring to Doreen, a young redhead who blushed and dimpled prettily. Encouraged, he turned up the charm, waiting for the right moment to ask her out. Neither Rico or Doreen saw Tom quietly slip up and take the keys dangling from Rico's waist.

Tom hurried as fast as he dared to Radisson's room, keeping his gait slow enough to avoid suspicion. He swore softly; the room was empty. Precious seconds ticking away, he hurried to the recreation room. Radisson was there, but so were two orderlies trying to organize a game of cards.

"Come on, Tom," one called encouragingly. "I'll bet you're good at this."

"Not today," he said. "I'm supposed to go see Dr. Silvany." He walked past Radisson, letting him see the keys cupped in his hand before exiting through the doors at the other end of the room. Radisson waited a minute, then put down his magazine and strolled off in the same direction.

"Hey, James," an orderly said. "You leaving us, too?"

"I never was one much for cards," Radisson replied.

In the hallway, Radisson looked around for Tom, who beckoned from an open doorway. "Where'd you get the keys?" he asked breathlessly.

"Our friend Rico loaned them to me." Tom grinned. "He's likely to miss them soon, so we'd better get moving."

"Come on, then!" Radisson exclaimed, starting towards the ward entrance.

"Wait." Tom said. "That's no good. They never carry the ward keys on the floor. We can't get out that way."

Radisson pulled up short, his shoulders slumped in dejection. "So what good was getting the keys if they won't get us out of here?"

"What they will get us is into the rooms on this wing," Tom explained. "And that's going to help us get out."

"How? In case you haven't noticed, they're not real big on doors in this place. No private patios to each room. We'll still be stuck inside."

"I have a plan," Tom said, "but it'll be too late if we waste time standing here arguing about it."

Radisson bit off what he was going to say and looked at Tom expectantly.

"I have a session with Dr. Silvany in fifteen minutes. Every time it's the same. The orderly takes me to the treatment room and waits until I sit down. Then he leaves, locking the door behind him. When Silvany comes in, he enters by another door, a door from the room next door. It must be his office. There has to be another way out of that office, one that doesn't open onto the ward."

"How can you be sure of that? Just because you didn't see him go in or out, it doesn't follow that he didn't use the door to the hall."

"I can't be positive," Tom said with a trace of irritation. "But I've been watching for the last two days. Yesterday morning, he left his office just before lunch. I never saw him go in there. And I've never seen him enter or leave the ward by the double doors. Look, this is the best shot we have. We don't have time to wait for a sure thing."

"OK, tell me your plan," Radisson replied heavily.

"You wait until the orderly's out of sight, then use Rico's key to let yourself into the treatment room. You hide behind the door to Silvany's office and take him by surprise when he comes in. I'll help you, but you have to be the one to jump him. If I'm not sitting in the chair like usual, he'll suspect something's up."

"Aren't you forgetting one thing?"

Tom looked at him questioning.

"Rico," Radisson elaborated. "By now he'll have reported his keys missing. Any minute now this ward could be locked down while they search for the keys."

"I don't think so," Tom said. "Rico's not going to be in a hurry to tell anyone he screwed up. Right now, he's probably hoping like mad that he lost them himself. I think we'll have at least an hour before he gives up and reports it."

"There sure are a lot of suppositions to this plan," Radisson said. "But I don't have a better one, so let's get to it."

--------------------------------

Silvany watched on a screen as Radisson stealthily entered the treatment room and following a whispered exchange with Tom, flattened himself against the wall beside the door leading to his office. He wasn't looking forward to the next couple hours. He didn't think Tom would kill him, but he had been getting more unpredictable and desperate as the study progressed. The doctor tried not to think of Barton. It was a calculated risk, the Director had said. Silvany couldn't help but wonder if the Director would have been as sanguine about those risks if he were the one taking them.

He lifted the telephone receiver and pressed the Director's extension.

--------------------------------------------

Twenty minutes later he sat in the front seat of his Mercedes with the business end of a Luger pressed hard into his shoulder. He could feel the tension of the man holding it as Tom drove the car towards the front gate. Radisson moved back against the backrest of the seat behind him, a jacket draped over the gun on his lap to hide it from the security guard at the gate.

The guard stepped over to the driver's side window. "On your way out, Dr. Silvany? I don't want to hold you up, but I'm afraid I don't recognize the other gentlemen."

"Visiting colleagues," Silvany casually replied. "Drs. Foster and Merrick."

The guard hastily scanned his sheet and frowned. "I don't have any record of them coming in this morning."

Tom stiffened, his foot poised over the gas pedal.

"There must be some mistake," Silvany said. "It was very busy this morning when we arrived. I assure you that everything is quite in order. If anyone should give you any trouble about it, I take full responsibility."

The guard hesitated. He really should call this in, but he'd look like a fool if it was just an oversight and make an enemy of the doctor. He stepped back and pressed the button to open the gate.

Tom drove at a leisurely pace down the drive and turned towards the city, every nerve in his body screaming to press the pedal to the floor and get the hell out of here. He could see Radisson had the same thought. While keeping an eye on Silvany, he kept flashing wild looks at the speedometer. Tom could see how agitated and nervous he was. He had helped Tom subdue Silvany back at the hospital, but seemed shocked by the menace in Tom's voice as he threatened and bullied the doctor. Tom thought Radisson was going to be ill when he saw Tom take the gun from the doctor's desk drawer. Now he clung to it with white-clenched fingers. Tom knew he was going to have to be careful not to push him over the edge.

"If they are looking for us, the first places they're going to check is your home and your office," he said, trying to steady Radisson with his voice. "so it would be wiser to stay away from them. The problem is, if we don't get those papers now, we may not have another chance. Are you sure they're worth it?"

Radisson trembled, trying to focus on Tom's words. "I can't believe this is happening," he murmured. "What? Oh... Those papers are my only chance of putting an end to this. Milton won't dare touch me if knows I have them and that they will be sent to the appropriate people if anything should happen to me."

"We'll have to chance it then," Tom said decisively. "The alarm may not have gone out yet. But if there's any sign of trouble, get out as fast as you can. Believe me, these people don't fool around. You could end up dead or worse."

"What could be worse?"

"Try a lifetime inside of one of those hospitals while they rearrange your brain. Is that what you do, Doc?" he asked Silvany.

Silvany gave him a haughty stare. "Obviously, I didn't do that well enough in your case. Soon to be remedied, I'm sure."

"Don't count on it," Tom harshly replied. "Just remember, if anything happens to us, you'll be the first one to fall."

Silvany looked faintly amused. Tom fought the urge to cuff his pompous face. "Get a grip," he told himself. "Don't let him provoke you."

"What do we do with him?" Radisson asked.

"We take him with us," Tom answered. "It's the safest way. We keep an eye on him and when we no longer need him, he can go back and tell them all about those papers you have on Milton."

Radisson looked faintly relieved that Tom wasn't think of doing something more violent to the doctor. He seemed to be calming down. The efficient businessman took over as he thought about the operation ahead of them.

"There's a back entrance from the alley leading into the basement. If I had my keys we could go straight in that way. I'll enter alone through the front and get the keys from my office. Then I'll come down and let you in."

"You're taking a big chance if they know already that we've escaped," Tom commented. "You'd be walking right into their hands."

"I don't see where we have a choice," Radisson said. "We've got this far. Let's hope that luck is running with us."

-----------------------------

Tom waited in the Mercedes, guarding Silvany. When he saw the alley door open a few inches, he got out of the car, keeping the doctor covered as he walked around the front of the car to open the passenger door. Inside the building, Radisson led them down a half-flight of stairs. Tom kept a firm grip on Silvany's shoulder, the pistol at the ready, but the doctor followed along docilely.

They passed through several rooms haphazardly packed with discarded office furniture and file boxes in dusty heaps. It was an old building heated by a monstrous boiler, silent on this warm spring day. Radisson led them around the boiler and eagerly started pulling away wooden flats leaning against the walls. Beginning several rows up from the floor, he started at the corner counting bricks.

"This is it," he cried. "Find me something to work with, a chisel or screwdriver."

A toolbox sat open next to the boiler where a section had been disassembled. Tom found a rusty screwdriver and handed it to Radisson. The mortar around the brick crumbled easily as Radisson scraped at it. After a few tries followed by more energetic scraping, he was able to pull the brick from the wall. He reached inside and pulled out a small metal box. Setting it on the floor, he fumbled eagerly for the latch. Seizing a manila envelope, he slid out half a dozen folded papers. After quickly perusing them, he cried exultantly, "They're all here."

"Now!" Silvany shouted, shoving Tom hard to one side. Tom barely heard the silenced shot, rolling back to his feet and turning to see Radisson slowly crumple to the floor, a red stain blossoming outwards on his chest. Conscious of the marksman, he darted forward and dragged the other man behind the shelter of the boiler. He knelt beside him and tried to stanch the flow of blood, but Radisson's eyes were already widening with shock.

"Hold on!" Tom pled frantically. "Come on, Radisson! You've got to hang in there."

Radisson tried to speak but only let out a sigh as his body sagged. Tom closed the sightless eyes before doubling over, holding his sides against the gasping breaths wracking his body. The remorse and horror tearing at his soul gave way to blinding anger.

"Silvany!" he shouted. "Where are you, you bastard?"

Silvany stepped into view. "Right here, Tom," he said calmly.

"Why did you have to kill him?" Tom raged. "He didn't even have a gun."

"He was a loose end," the doctor replied. "The question is, what are you?"

"The man who can blow a hole in you right now," Tom shouted. "Give me one reason why I shouldn't kill you."

"Do you really think I would let you have real bullets?" the doctor asked. "They're blanks, Tom." Seeing the derision on Tom's face, he went on, "Go ahead. Try it and see."

With a shaking hand, Tom tightened his finger on the trigger, still aimed at the doctor's chest. Then he lowered his aim to Silvany's leg. The release of the trigger was deafening, but Silvany still stood there smugly smiling.

Tom reversed the gun, ready to club the doctor with its butt, but a blow from behind plummeted him into darkness.

----------------------------------

Tom sat down at the counter of the diner. Angela briskly walked over and asked "Coffee?", already reaching for a cup. Tom nodded.

"I guess it's not the best coffee in the word," she said with a smile.

"What do you mean?" Tom asked.

"It took you two months to come back for another cup," she replied.

Trying to hide his disquiet, he asked, "I was in here before? Are you sure?"

"Sure," she said. "I poured you three cups of coffee and you read the paper and left."

"I'm on the road a lot," he stammered. "After a while, one place starts to look like another. Sorry."

"Hey, what does a guy have to do to get some coffee in here?" the man who had sat down two stools over boisterously called out.

"Just a sec." Angela scurried to pour him a cup of coffee.

The newcomer unfolded his paper and read silently for a moment. He turned to Tom and exclaimed with disgust, "How do you like that? The guy says he'll never sell and now there he is with his arm around Henry Milton himself, saying how happy he is to be working with him."

He pointed at a headline at the top of the page. Bold headlines proclaimed, "Radisson Aviation Enters Milton Fold." In smaller letters beneath: "Radisson to stay on as RA director."

The man seated on the other side of Tom studied his face from the corner of his eye, the hand in his pocket of his overcoat holding a small pistol.

The loudmouth went on, "I suppose after the death of his wife, he didn't have the heart to fight the takeover anymore. That was a sad thing. Drowning on their honeymoon. They never did find the body, either."

Tom tried to turn back to his coffee, but the man persisted, "Do you know I met him once? A real straight-up guy. Shook my hand and called me by name, nice as you please. Hey, did you ever meet him?" He thrust the paper towards Tom, making sure he had a good look at Radisson's portrait.

Tom glanced at it and something stirred at the corner of his mind. The man in the overcoat picked up on the hesitation and tensed, ready to spring into action. But Tom finally shook his head and said, "No. I'm not from around here."

He left his coffee half-drank and walked slowly back to his motel. Two months he couldn't account for, a city he couldn't remember visiting before. Somewhere in this town was the key to whatever had happened to him in those missing weeks, but he didn't know where to start. For a moment in the diner, he had thought he remembered something but it was too deeply buried in the mists of his mind. What was the game this time, he wondered. He couldn't shake the feeling that this time he'd lost.
 
 

c1997 by Marge Brashier

brashier@tcccom.net