Wild Storm

CHAPTER 20

A SECURED ROOM

William McRae came to slowly, with the same sense of dread he had felt every morning for, what, three weeks now? Four?

He was starting to lose track. When he was first abducted, snatched by a group headed by a man with a wine stain on his face and a gun on his hip, McRae had assumed his captivity would be brief. He thought he would either be killed, or released, or his ransom would be paid.

Instead, they had drugged him, keeping him in a narcotized stupor for perhaps several days. He had the sensation of almost constant motion, like he was being moved somewhere. Sometimes the movement would stop and he would think: okay, now the end is coming. Then it would resume. He often heard an engine. He thought, perhaps, it was a generator. Maybe they were somewhere off the grid, and the engine was what supplied them their power. Or maybe this was a large vehicle of some kind. It was all so disorienting.

Once he recovered from the effects of the sedatives, they put him to work, making it clear to him that they would hurt him badly if he refused. He had not yet tested them on whether they’d carry out this threat.

It never occurred to him that his captivity might stretch this long, that he would start to get confused about the passage of time to the point where he could no longer reliably say what day of the week it was. The things that used to anchor him to time — the busy retiree’s schedule of volunteer activities, the weekly rhythms of the things he and Alida did together, the calendar in his office, and the cell phone in his pocket — had all been taken from him.

In truth, he had not been badly treated in some ways. His confines were comfortable. His bed had a pillow-top mattress and clean, fine sheets that were changed every few days. His “cell,” such as it was, was a windowless interior room, yes. But it had plush carpeting and its own en suite bathroom with a shower, sink, and toilet. It also had a small sitting area, where he took all his meals.

He was given clothes that fit him well. If he ever needed something, there was an intercom in his room. He could press the button anytime, tell the guards what he needed, and someone would fulfill the request. When he had discovered a mild allergy to one of his pillows, it had been removed, and he had received prompt medical treatment for his discomfort. He was being well fed, even overfed, by food that was delicious and nutritive.

The trade-off was that they were working him constantly. Every day after breakfast, they led him from his bedroom, across the hall and to the left, to his workshop. It was also windowless. He was kept under constant guard and made to work all day and into the evening.

After McRae had made the first laser for them, he thought he was done. He actually had stalled on the work a bit, thinking that when it was through, he was through.

Then they came back and said: build another one.

Then another.

At first, there was a part of him — the scientist in him — that was thrilled by the work. He had always theorized that given enough promethium, he could make the most powerful laser the world had ever seen. But because promethium had always been in such miniscule supply, with no hope of getting more, it remained nothing more than a theory.

Getting to put it in practice was satisfying, even as he fretted over what they might be doing with the weapons. He kept thinking they would soon run out of promethium — where were they getting so much from, anyhow? — and that when that happened he would get a rest.

It was just getting to be too much. He was not a young man anymore. They brought people in to help him with some of the more physical tasks, but some of it was still up to him. His hands, which had a tendency toward arthritis as it was, were getting sore. He worked each day well past the point where his fingers literally ached.

His body was just out of whack. He missed his daily jog, not only for the physical release it gave him, but also for the mental health aspect. The jog centered him, soothed him, made him feel healthy, and released all those wonderful endorphins in his bloodstream.

The absence of the jog, on the other hand, had been a disruption. He wasn’t sleeping as well at night. He was more irritable. The windowless rooms were getting to him. His body craved the fresh air and the sunlight.

More than anything, he missed Alida. He missed her companionship, her steady good cheer, her laugh, her smile. He missed the way she smelled when she came in from gardening, like soil and sweat. He missed talking to her about his work, something that had started long ago and had become an ingrained part of their marriage. He found himself pretending to have those conversations with her, almost because he couldn’t process information himself without thinking of how he’d explain it to Alida. She wasn’t just his ghostwriter. She was his muse.

Some couples take each other for granted, especially after several decades of marriage; or they treat each other shabbily, neglecting to show each other the kindness they’d extend to strangers. William and Alida McRae had never done that. It had made their relationship strong, helped their love grow — rather than wither — through the years.

Being apart from her was, without question, the worst part of the whole ordeal for him. In their entire married life, forty-five years and counting, they had never been separated for more than maybe two, at most three nights — when he went to a conference on the East Coast to present a paper. Otherwise, they were inseparable.

He worried about how she was holding up without him. He worried about the effect her distress might be having on her health. He worried she was worried.

He begged his captors to let him call her, to tell her he was still alive. They had refused. What about an e-mail, he asked? A letter? No way, they said.

All the while, they kept working him. And now he was just tired: of toiling for these men, of his aching fingers, of agonizing over what they might be doing with the weapons he was making, of missing Alida.

He rolled over in bed, much as he wished he didn’t have to. They watched him, he knew. Usually, they came in not long after he first stirred. Lately he’d taken to lying very still in the morning, milking a few extra minutes in bed. It’s just that he was an old man and couldn’t stay in the same position too long.

So he moved. And shortly thereafter, one of his captors came in. There were five of them. McRae assigned them each a Greek letter, based on where he thought each one ranked. This one was Delta.

“Good morning,” Delta said gruffly. “What do you want for breakfast?”

“Nothing,” he said, rolling back over.

Delta paused. He was younger than some of the other ones, which is why McRae had assigned him somewhat subordinate status. Like the others, he didn’t bother hiding his face, which worried McRae: it meant none of them were concerned about him getting out alive to identify them.

“Come on, Dr. McRae, you have to eat.”

“Forget it,” McRae said. “I’m done working for you people.”

The words just came out. He hadn’t much considered their consequences. The man did not respond, just left the room. He heard the door click, as it always did. His captors did not leave anything to chance. McRae wondered if he’d even know what to do if the door didn’t click. He hoped someday he’d get the chance to find out.

Three minutes later, another man came in. It was Alpha. McRae had decided he was the leader based on the deference the other men showed him and also because of his immense size. Alpha was at least six foot six and densely built, well north of three hundred pounds, most of it muscle. With blond hair and blue eyes, he looked like a modern day Viking. He was carrying a manila envelope.

“Dr. McRae, I understand we have a bit of a problem this morning.”

McRae just lay there, and said nothing. He was through. If they wanted to hurt him, fine. He wasn’t building them any more lasers.

“Very well, if that’s how it’s going to be,” Alpha said, sighing like this was nothing more than a minor inconvenience. He opened the manila envelope and began laying eight-by-ten glossy photos on the foot of the bed.

McRae didn’t look at them. They were probably just gruesome pictures of some person they had mutilated. It was the lowest level of coercion. Perhaps the real torture would start soon. But McRae was betting it wouldn’t. After all, if they damaged him, he wouldn’t be able to work for them. This was his trump card, and he was finally playing it.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of one of the photos being laid on his bed.

It wasn’t some sick, blood-and-guts picture of some anguished prisoner.

It was Alida. Gardening.

McRae sat up, his heart pounding like a jackhammer against his rib cage.

“Nice pictures, aren’t they?” Alpha said. “Really captures the care she puts into her work.”

Alpha took out another photo. It was Alida, clutching the newspaper as she walked up the steps to their house. “I like this one, too. Action photo. And if you look very carefully, you’ll see the date of the newspaper is yesterday. So it’s very recent.”

McRae’s mouth was dry. He couldn’t find any words.

“Let me talk this out for you, Mr. McRae, in case you’re missing the point of all this. We have a man set up at your house, watching your dear Alida closely. If you refuse to work for us, we won’t harm a hair on your scrawny little head. You’re too valuable to us. We’ll just hurt Alida instead. Are we clear?”

McRae nodded.

“I’m going to need to hear a word or two, Mr. McRae. Are we clear?”

“Yes,” McRae said, hoarsely.

“Very good,” Alpha said. “Now — and this time, I suggest you answer — what would you like for breakfast?”