Authors: Robin Cook
PAULA'S HOUSE
SANTA MONICA, CALIFORNIA
SUNDAY, JULY 6, 2014, 11:53
P.M.
G
eorge was still exhausted, but after sleeping for five hours that afternoon he found he couldn't fall asleep after all. He had turned off the light and gotten into bed, but as soon as he lay down, all his fears about his future returned. Although he'd been able to let his mind rest for a few hours about iDoc, Zee, his legal worries, and the fact that he was on a forced leave of absence from his residency program, in bed it was another matter. Try as he might, he couldn't stop thinking even though he had no answers, and, as Paula said, there wasn't any way anything was going to be solved that night.
After an hour or so of tossing and turning, he switched the light back on. He got up, pulled on the bathrobe against the air-conditioned chill, and padded over to a built-in bookcase. Paula had stocked it with a collection of novels and nonfiction. He scanned the titles for something to read. He was not choosy, he just needed to keep his mind occupied. He pulled out a worn copy of Barbara Tuchman's
The
Guns of August
. He propped himself up in bed and began to read, hoping to fall asleep. But he soon realized that the book was too well written and too interesting. After several chapters he knew he needed to find something else. He was about to get up to find something else when he thought he heard a faint knocking. He listened and thought he heard it again.
Opening the door connecting to the main part of the house, he was surprised to see Paula standing there, also in a bathrobe, arm raised, about to knock again. She, too, was surprised by the sudden opening of the door. They both laughed, mildly embarrassed.
“Sorry to disturb you, but from my bedroom I can see the window to the guest room, and noticed your light was on. I didn't know if you were asleep or not and didn't want to wake you if you were, but since I was having trouble dropping off, I thought I'd come down and see if you were having trouble, too. If you are, I can keep you company for a bit.”
“Great! Come in!” He chuckled. “I can't believe myself, I'm inviting you into your own guest suite!”
She followed him over to the sitting area. “You know, despite the circumstances that brought us together, I enjoyed the evening.”
“I feel the same,” he agreed.
She settled into the sofa, tucking her legs under herself. “My mind wouldn't stop. And not just because of the iDoc situation. Tonight . . . Well, I wasn't as up front as I should have been.”
George raised his eyebrows. “Go on!”
“When we were talking about our relationship in medical school, I wasn't completely truthful about how angry you had made me.” She stared at her hands folded in her lap. “At the time it was a self-esteem issue for sure. I decided that I would never have anything to do with you socially again.”
“Paula, I'm so sorry about what happened. In retrospect, as I said, I don't understand my own behavior. Truly.”
“I recovered to a degree over the next three years, but not completely. When you called me during the summer of your first year of residency and my first year out here, saying that we should get together, I was tempted to tell you how angry and hurt I had been and not see you. But I decided on the spur of the moment to give it a go anyway. Can you remember what we talked about?”
George thought he remembered; he had babbled on about Pia.
“For the entire evening, all you talked about was how Pia was not returning your phone calls, texts, or emails and how worried you were about her, blah, blah, blah.”
George grimaced. “Did I really do that?” He knew he did.
“You did. You carried on all evening, which brought up all the hurt from our freshman year.”
“I'm sorry, I was such an ass. But I've grown up a bit.” What he didn't explain was that he had grown up because of Kasey.
The conversation went on for a while longer, with Paula finally taking the opportunity to express herself as she could not before. George was contrite and apologetic, asking Paula to understand that his behavior had stemmed somewhat from his being an addict of sorts, and the more Pia rejected him, the harder he tried to make the relationship work. Since honesty was on the table for the night, George decided to open up about Kasey.
“I never mentioned that Kasey Lynch, the first victim of the iDoc problem, was actually my fiancée,” he said softly. “She was part of the iDoc beta test when she was diagnosed with advanced, stage-three ovarian cancer.” What he still didn't include was that he had awakened with her dead in his bed.
Paula's mouth dropped open. “George, I'm so sorry! Here I am talking about my hurt feelings seven years ago, and you just lost your fiancée, possibly because of something I helped create!” She let out a sigh. “When did she die?”
“A few months ago.”
“Are you still grieving? Of course you are. It's only been a few months.”
“I'll probably always grieve. But I've reconciled myself to her loss, except to why it happened so precipitously. Her death is one of the reasons I have to find out exactly what is going on. Can we do that together?”
“Yes, George.” She took his hand and squeezed it tightly.
George reached out and hugged her. It was obvious to him that this time neither of them felt self-conscious about the hug. It lasted and lasted and led to a tentative kiss. The kiss led to another, and to both their surprise, the sense of attraction they had for each other since they had first met surmounted any reservations they held or the circumstances that had now brought them together.
With a certain desperation the two old friends hesitantly clung to each other, then abandoned restraint. They tore off their robes. Sinking into the canopied bed, they devoured each other, making mad, passionate love. For a few paradisiacal moments they allowed their minds and bodies to be completely absorbed in the giving and receiving of pleasure. Some time later, locked in an embrace as if afraid their coupling had been a dream and that the other was going to disappear, they fell into an exhausted, sublime sleep.
PAULA'S HOUSE
SANTA MONICA, CALIFORNIA
MONDAY, JULY 7, 2014, 3:23
A.M.
A
muffled explosion sent a shock wave through the house, rattling the windows and waking George and Paula from their sleep. Both were momentarily stunned, particularly George, who, for the moment, as after his earlier nap, didn't even know where he was.
An alarm sounded, with a loud, intermittent, obnoxious, grating noise throughout the house. They looked to each other, wondering if it had been an earthquake. It was almost completely dark. What little light there was came from the pool, filtering in through the Bermuda shutters.
Paula was the first to act. She leaped from the bed, her silk nightgown billowing behind her, and rushed over to a small LED security screen mounted in the wall. She quickly typed in a code.
George scrambled out of bed and joined her.
The LED screen came to life, providing the first real light in the room, and began flashing a schematic of the house. It showed a blinking light at the front door.
“The front door has been breached,” Paula croaked. She couldn't believe this was happening.
Now actual images of the property flashed on the screen, one after another, coming from security cameras throughout the property. Paula tapped out a command and the image shifted to the front door. It had been blown wide open. Through a cloud of smoke they could make out an armed figure dressed from head to toe in black, seemingly standing guard at the entrance.
“My God!” Paula voiced. She tapped out another command. The image switched to the main stairs and then the upper hallway. Three more figures in black could be seen dashing through the hall toward the master bedroom.
The phone rang.
Paula snapped it up. “Confirmed! Break-in in progress!”
George could hear a voice on the other end saying, “Ten-four! Police on their way!”
Paula dropped the phone and turned to George. “We have to get to the safe room! Now!”
“How can we get to it?” George blurted as he scrambled to pull on a pair of pants. Being naked made him feel even more vulnerable, if that was at all possible.
Paula turned back to the security pad, and they watched as the intruders flew back out of the master bedroom and paused, as if confused about what to do next.
“They're searching for me,” she whispered over the sound of the alarm. “Who the hell are they?”
“Lord knows! They can't be FBI or SWAT.” He remembered that the team of men who had invaded his apartment all had their affiliations clearly blazoned on their uniforms. These people did not.
They watched as one of the men made a call on what they guessed was a cell phone.
“Follow me,” Paula said quietly. “There are back stairs to the second floor just outside the guest suite.”
“Is that the best idea? The safe room is in the basement?”
Paula nodded toward the screen. “They already checked the master bedroom. We should go there and use the hidden slide.”
George nodded his understanding.
They slipped out of the guest suite, Paula pulling George behind her as they ducked into the back stairway behind what looked like a closet door. Once there, they began creeping up the dark wooden steps. At the top, Paula came to an abrupt halt and ducked down, causing George to bump into her, nearly tripping over her crouched figure. She pointed ahead, down the second-floor hallway to a dark figure standing at the head of the main stairway, blocking their route. With no other option, they cowered in the darkness at the head of the back stairs and waited. The raucous noise of the alarm stopped as suddenly as it had started.
A whistle came from below, and the man silently sprinted down the steps in response.
“Now!” Paula whispered. She scrambled forward, urging George to follow. She hurried down the hall toward the master bedroom.
Hearing footsteps, the man who had just descended the stairs looked up, spotting them dashing past in the half light. “Stop!” he yelled.
They ignored him and kept running for the bedroom.
The man leaped up the stairs two at a time, yelling over his shoulder to his colleagues. “I have them! Master bedroom!”
George and Paula burst into the master bedroom, slamming the door shut as the man chasing them ran into it. George braced himself against the door while Paula flicked the lock.
The intruder threw his full body weight at the locked door, but it was lined with steel: another level of protection ordered by the former owner, for which George and Paula were now thankful. The man out in the hall repeatedly lunged at it, crashing into it presumably with his shoulder. It rattled but held.
The master bedroom was almost pitch-dark, with just an inkling of light coming in through the curtains covering the sliding glass doors that led to a balcony overlooking the pool area. They made their way over to the wood panel that covered the chute, with George holding on to Paula's nightgown. Locating the handhold ingeniously camouflaged in the panel's trim, Paula yanked open the panel to the chute. A whiff of comparatively stale, humid air wafted up from the chute in stark contrast to the highly air-conditioned air of the bedroom.
Paula grabbed George's arm and pulled him toward the yawning maw. George hesitated. Throwing himself down a black hole willy-nilly was a scary proposition, even though he had already done it earlier. But then it wasn't dark in the room.
“Go!” Paula commanded in a harsh voice. The man in the hall continued to pound away at the door. Boom! But now they could hear the sound of wood splintering. George realized that while the door itself might not give way, its frame was about to.
Sensing he could not hesitate another second, George launched himself feetfirst down the chute. The walls were of polished metal, and only an instant later he hit the cushioned floor of the basement. In the utter blackness he groped for a landmark. As he started to stand, Paula collided with him, knocking him forward onto his hands and knees.
“Sorry,” she managed.
“It's okay.” He scrambled to his feet again and then began inching forward with his hands outstretched, swinging them in a tight arc in the direction of the safe room in the hope of connecting with something to orient him.
He felt Paula place her hand on the small of his back, urging him forward toward the safe room's door. Then, for the second time that night, they were stunned. On this occasion, it was even more frightening than when the front door was blown open.
PAULA'S HOUSE
SANTA MONICA, CALIFORNIA
MONDAY, JULY 7, 2014, 3:31
A.M.
G
eorge and Paula were frozen in place, blinking against a blinding bright light shining directly at them. They were immediately set upon by several of the intruders, who grabbed them and bound their hands behind their backs with plastic ties. Whoever these people were, they were in a hurry. Not a word was spoken.
“Who are you and what do you want?” Paula demanded. With the anxiety of the actual chase over, her terror had morphed into rage.
The men ignored her and placed black hoods over George's and Paula's heads. Rapidly, they half dragged and half carried their two captives to the stairs, where they were unceremoniously hauled up to the main floor. Then, just as quickly, they were propelled out the back door, wincing in pain as their bare feet trod across the stone walkway to the alley.
Paula started to yell out but was immediately thumped on her back with a club. “You'll lose all your teeth if you do that again,” a captor sneered.
George overheard the threat and remained silent. The next thing they knew, they were being forced into a van, pushed down to the metal floor, and covered with what felt like a heavy blanket. A moment later the door to the van was slammed shut, and they could feel the vehicle begin to move, slowly at first, along the alley. A few seconds later it lurched forward as it accelerated in the open street. Both George and Paula repositioned themselves to make breathing easier.
Their movements brought rapid retaliation. They could feel their captors above them pushing down with their boots to keep them from moving. They heard a police siren in the distance, but the blaring sound faded as the van raced in the opposite direction.
So much for the police
, George thought, discouraged. They would find nothing but an empty house.
After several minutes George risked a whisper: “I'm sorry. I'm afraid I brought this on you. I tried to make sure I had not been followed.”
“They must have tracked your car with GPS,” Paula answered back just as quietly.
“Maybe so,” George said. He'd never given a thought to having been tracked wirelessly.
“Regardless, it's not your fault. I'm sorry, too,” she added.
“Quiet!” one of the men above them snapped. The boots pressed down harder.
George was aware they were moving quickly through the city streets, which he knew had little traffic at that hour. Despite the earlier warning, George moved to try to get more comfortable, forcing Paula to do the same.
“Stay still!” one of the captors warned.
As they rode in silence George tried not to think about what was going to happen to them or why they were being abducted. Their captors seemed professional and highly trained from the way they functioned with such efficiency, without the need to talk. He wondered if they were government agents because of their lack of identity, but that didn't make any sense, since he'd already been arrested. In fact, the only government agency that would act in this manner was the CIA. He couldn't believe that anyone thought he and Paula were terrorists, needing rendition to some place like Guantánamo.
After what George estimated was about forty-five minutes driving on what felt like flat Los Angeles streets, they started going uphill. It was steep enough for him to feel the pull of gravity. George suspected they were traveling up one of the numerous canyons of Los Angeles. He heard no conversation between the abductors, which suggested there was no confusion as to where they were going.
Suddenly the van slowed and seemed to pull off the main road. George guessed they had left pavement as he could hear gravel crackling under the tires. Then the van stopped and George heard a muffled creaking noise that sounded like a gate being opened. He strained to listen for other sounds that might give him a better sense of where they were. The van started to move again, still on gravel. After a minute or two it stopped again. This time the engine was turned off and a few moments later the doors opened, including the ones in the back.
Immediately George sensed dry air coming into the van. It was also decidedly cooler here than at Paula's house in Santa Monica. Putting together all the clues of drive time, uphill travel, and the change in temperature and humidity, he surmised that they could be somewhere up in the Hollywood Hills. Maybe the location to which Zee had traced one of the high-anonymity proxy servers that had something to do with overwriting the iDoc dump commands.
The blanket that had covered them was pulled away, and they were again half carried and half dragged out of the van. Outside of the vehicle, they shivered in the night air until blankets were draped over their shoulders. That act alone made them both feel more optimistic. If their abductors cared enough about their well-being, then the situation might be hopeful. They were pushed forward across the gravel drive on their tender bare feet until they eventually reached the relief of a paved sidewalk.
As he walked George could glimpse a section of the walkway through a small open space at the bottom of the hood covering his head. He could tell that a string of lights ran along the walk. He heard the howl of a coyote in the distance as they entered a lighted building and were pulled to a stop. To their surprise, their hoods were pulled off, and they were shocked to see all five of their abductors standing before them with their faces fully exposed.
Their captors were all large, powerful-appearing, racially diverse men with short haircuts that made George think of the Special Forces. All were armed with holstered sidearms. The fact that the men were allowing themselves to be seen sent a chill down George's spine. He knew that kidnappers never showed their faces
if
there was a chance that the victims would be released once ransom demands were made. Since their abductors had shown themselves, George worried that there were no plans for them to be released. His mind raced through all other options and came up blank, and a bolt of terror rippled through him again.
Paula, obviously panicked, nonetheless immediately launched into a vociferous tirade. “What the hell is going on here! Who are you? Why have we been brought here? You people can't go around kidnapping whomever the hell you damn want!”
George cringed. He was worried that she was inviting the beating that had been threatened earlier.
The men in black didn't respond. It became apparent that they were waiting.
Waiting for
what?
George wondered. He looked around, noting that they were in a large reception or waiting room area. The place had a definite institutional feel. Everything was white, tan, or gray. The furniture was nondescript and definitely not new, maybe from the fifties or sixties. The floor was some sort of composite material, like old-fashioned linoleum. There were a scattering of dated magazines on side tables. For illumination, there were banks of harsh, recessed fluorescent lights.
All at once a door opened and three men and three women appeared. All were middle-aged and dressed in pressed white pants and shirts. There was no talk and certainly no smiles. The ethnically diverse group comprised a couple of African Americans, a Caucasian, two Latinos, and an Asian. What that suggested, if anything, George had no idea. They shared a common trait: all were large and muscular and appeared capable of handling an unruly person, if need be.
It was immediately apparent to both George and Paula that they had been expected. There was no conversation. The men in black merely nodded to the newly arrived attendants, then disappeared back out into the night. Their mission was apparently over.
For a moment Paula watched the men leave and, recovering from the shock, she turned to the attendants and directed a slightly modified repeat of the furious attack she had unleashed on the abductors. “Where are we? Why have we been brought here? This is crazy! We've been kidnapped.”
The attendants were unfazed. The women pulled Paula back toward the door from which they had come.
Paula screamed, “Let go of me! I'm not going in here! What kind of freaking place is this?”
“Ma'am,” one of the women calmly responded, “you are in a private mental health rehabilitation center.”
“What! Why?” Paula demanded. She sounded more infuriated than scared. She tried to refuse to move.
The attendants were apparently accustomed to Paula's attitude. One of the attendants took a syringe out of her pocket.
Paula's eyes opened wide, and she quieted down. She did not want to be injected. “Okay, okay! I'll go.” She hesitantly allowed herself to be moved forward into the facility.
“It'll be okay, Paula!” George called after her. “Just do as they say for now!” His mind was going a mile a minute, trying desperately to figure out what was happening. Then two of the male attendants grabbed George's arms and urged him to follow Paula.
George heard the heavy door close behind them with a concussive sound, advertising just how impenetrable it was. A resounding click indicated it was locked up tight.
Paula heard it, too, and was suddenly in a near hysteria. She tried to stop and free herself from the grasp of the attendants. “You don't understand!” she yelled. “We're here against our will! We've truly been kidnapped by those apes that brought us here! We need to call the police!”
The attendants said nothing, strengthened their grip on her arms, and nudged her forward.
She stared at their maddeningly calm faces in disbelief. “I said we've been kidnapped! Don't you get it?”
The attendant with the syringe responded. “Yes, we get it. We hear that a lot. That's what most all the people say when they first arrive.”
Paula and George were shocked into silence by the comment. Paula looked back at George questioningly. George made an expression of total confusion. They were both at a complete loss.
“Please!” the attendant said. “Be cooperative! It is for your own good. We need to get you comfortable.”
Reluctantly, Paula acquiesced.
The two were led through a large common area furnished similarly to the outer reception area. There were no signs of any other people. Then they were escorted down a long, brightly lit corridor. There was no conversation. Paula had seemingly resigned herself to the situation. They came to a door, which one of the female attendants opened with a key attached to a ring, which was in turn attached by a wire to her trousers. She motioned to Paula to go inside.
Paula hesitated and George took a step forward to look. It was a relatively small room, approximately ten feet by ten feet, and all white, with a simple bed and chair. There were no windows. George felt a nudge on his back and moved down the hall.
He could hear Paula protesting that she didn't want to go into the room. One of the women told her that if she didn't cooperate, she would be tranquilized. That was the last thing George heard as he was pulled to a stop outside another door beyond which was a room similar to Paula's.
“After you,” the attendant said to George.
George stepped into the room. It had a bed and a chair and nothing else. No decorations on the blank white walls and no windows. There was a bathroom that had no door. Inside were a toilet, sink, and shower head. The shower was not enclosed and a drain was positioned in the middle of the floor. The word
institutional
popped into George's mind.
On the bed were clothes that looked like hospital scrubs. They were a nondescript medium blue. There were also underwear, socks, and slippers. George looked up. In the middle of the ceiling was a small inverted dome of dark glass, which George guessed was a surveillance camera.
Another attendant stepped behind George and used a pair of clippers to cut through the plastic tie binding George's wrists. When he looked down at his wrists he saw there were deep red indentations but no lacerations.
“Dress,” the third attendant ordered as he pointed to the clothing on the bed.
George finally spoke, attempting to keep his voice calm. “Can you tell me where we are and why we've been brought here?”
“You'll know that in the morning.” The man's voice was impassive, and he spoke as if to a child.
“I know you said you've heard it before, but we actually have been kidnapped.”
The attendant nodded and again pointed to the clothes on the bed. “Please, put on the clothes. And, yes, we hear all the time about being kidnapped. Almost everyone who is brought here says it and, in a way, they are right.”
“What other people?” George asked, although he could only guess. He imagined it was people with serious addiction problems whose families had resorted to forcible therapeutic intervention.
“Please, just relax. You'll learn everything you want to know in the morning. I suggest you get some sleep in the meantime.”
George tried to ask a few more questions, but to no avail. The attendant merely repeated that George would have to wait until morning for answers. With that, the three attendants turned and left. George heard another resounding click as the heavy door was secured.
He sat on the bed and stared at the door, feeling a twinge of claustrophobia. He got up to test the knob and confirm it was locked.
You never know
, his brain kept telling him,
it just
might miraculously open
. He gave the knob a twist and jiggled it. It didn't open. He went over to the wall that he guessed was common with Paula's room and put his ear against it, but heard nothing. He rapped on the wall. Almost immediately there came a muffled reply. George guessed the wall to be thick and soundproofed. He called out Paula's name but heard only silence in reply.
Next, he checked the bathroom. He saw nothing he hadn't already seen when he'd glanced into it earlier. It was remarkably utilitarian with no sharp objects he could use to harm himself. He went back into the main room and sat on the bed. His heart was still pounding from the ordeal of being kidnapped. What the hell was going on here? What other disaster could possibly await him after being arrested, thrown in jail, and now committed involuntarily to a mental health institution?