Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Epilogue
Painless
Derek Ciccone
Copyright© 2010 Derek Ciccone
Painless is available in print at all major online retailers or through www.derekciccone.com
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email: derekbkclb@yahoo.com
This book is dedicated to all those who make the daily sacrifices to help others, which includes mother’s at home, soldiers abroad, and everybody in-between. That is what the work for the “greater good” really is.
Prologue
Mitchell Jones’s Labor Day wouldn’t be filled with parades or barbecues, and he didn’t get the day off from work. He was thousands of miles from home, sitting quietly at a kitchen table in a small house in Malmo, a city on the southern coast of Sweden.
His assassin-like stillness was only occasionally interrupted to check his watch, or dispassionately stroke his long, graying beard. The beard, along with his wiry frame and dark, vacant eyes, gave him a resemblance to a certain infamous terrorist. This made flying commercial virtually impossible. But for his job with Operation Anesthesia, he didn’t have to.
As Sunday night slowly morphed into Monday morning, he patiently read his favorite author—Herbert Spencer—while waiting for the Lerner family to return from the United States. The news that the Lerners received from the US doctors was no doubt life-altering, but little did they know that Mitchell Jones was about to really change their lives forever.
Based on eighteen years of experience, he didn’t expect a confrontation. He knew the Lerner’s minds would be too cluttered to notice the obvious signs that someone had broken into their home, such as the lights he arrogantly left on, or the lingering odor from his chain-smoking. But if an altercation did occur, he was under direct orders to take everyone alive.
This went against Jones’s natural instinct to shoot first and ask questions later, a philosophy that got him fired from his old job at the CIA. But Operation Anesthesia didn’t see it as a black mark on his résumé. In fact, it was the reason they sought him out all those years ago. But sadly, like most things, their survival instincts had softened over time.
He took an extended drag on his cigarette, attempting to relieve some of the pain that was a souvenir from a recent mission in Iran. A mission that went awry, to say the least. Sixty percent of the area from his chest to his feet was burned from the fiery helicopter crash. The cigarette wasn’t a very good anesthetic.
Not even the best spin-doctor could heal the colossal failure of Iran. Any mission where you are presumed dead, and that’s the good news, was not one for the time capsule. But thanks to Jones’s survival instincts, he and his boss, Franklin Stipe, were preparing a dramatic rise from the dead. A resurrection in which Stipe would likely portray himself as the brave hero, leaving out the part where Jones guided him to safety, allowing him to avoid the cruel fate of the others they left behind.
But he smiled anyway, exposing his cigarette-stained teeth. He knew Stipe wouldn’t be in power much longer. His inevitable fall was dictated by the laws of nature, or what Spencer so brilliantly termed “the survival of the fittest.” A concept wrongly credited to Darwin and his theories of evolution. Herbert Spencer actually coined the phrase in his 1864 masterpiece, Principles of Biology.
In it, Spencer created the model that applied his law of “survival of the fittest” to society. He warned that humanitarian impulses had to be resisted, as nothing should be allowed to interfere with nature’s laws. This differed from Stipe, who sought useless elements such as glory, acceptance, and credit. As did the culture of modern America, which embraced concepts like love, happiness, and religion. It chipped away at its inherent survival skills, softening the society, and making it a target for its predators. But of course, that was the reason Operation Anesthesia was created in the first place.
The front door creaked open and a weary family entered, two-and-a-half-year-old Petr sleeping in his mother’s arms. Their bright blond hair didn’t appear to be dimmed by the life-changing news they had received on their trip, but each step they took was marked with exhaustion. Jones was sure the physical fatigue didn’t even compare to the mental strain of trying to grasp Petr’s diagnosis.
Upon reaching the kitchen, they were met by Mitchell Jones and his 9mm Glock. He coldly explained to the Lerners that their trip had just begun and it would be in their best interest to quietly cooperate. The father declined the offer, yelling, “Aldrig i helvete”—no way in hell—and Jones could kiss his behind, “Kyss mig i arslet.”
Jones went right for his weak spot, knowing a little Swedish of his own. “Jagt skar av dina ballar om du inte haller kaft,” he calmly stated, threatening to remove the man’s testicles.
The man stood down.
Predictable.
He knew the mother would be tougher. They always were. When it came to their children they were true survivalists like him, willing to fight to th
e death. So he immediately went with a pre-emptive attack—threatening to kill Petr.
She cooperated.
There would be no need to bind and gag them. He used a concoction created for Operation Anesthesia by one of the world’s leading neurologists, which would temporarily paralyze the body, including voice. And when Jones expertly injected each of the family members with a syringe containing the paralyzing drug, it didn’t surprise him that young Petr didn’t wake, or even flinch.
He effortlessly loaded the drugged family into the rented SUV he had parked two houses down on the quiet street. He then drove out of Malmo, over the modern Oresund Bridge, and into Denmark. In Copenhagen, a private plane waited to bring them to the home base of Operation Anesthesia. It would be the Lerner’s home for the rest of their lives.
Chapter 1
It was the end of the road for Billy Harper, both literally and figuratively. From the literal standpoint, the end of the road was a well-groomed cul-de-sac in New Canaan, Connecticut, with stately mansions staring back at him. The figurative was much more complex and hurtful.
His old high school football coach used to drill into his head that you should never look back because someone might be gaining on you. And whenever Billy glanced into his rear-view mirror, what he always saw gaining on him was his past. But ironically, as he looked through the front windshield at the children playing on the lush lawns, his past was straight ahead, and the pain began to rumble. The figurative.
He gathered his emotions as best he could and drove his 2001 Jeep Cherokee down a dirt driveway, which was hidden between two majestic mansions that anchored the cul-de-sac.
The Cherokee was a lot like him—it wasn’t that old, and still looked pretty good on the outside, but had a lot of hard miles on it and could break down at any moment. He bounced along the strip of gravel, kicking up dust and rocks, and rattling his few remaining possessions that were strewn throughout the vehicle. Billy glanced into the infamous rear-view mirror and saw the cul-de-sac disappear from view.
He arrived at a white picket fence. In the center of the fence was a wrought-iron gate with Bevelyn Farms imprinted on it. He passed through the open gate onto a paved driveway that circled in front of an arch-shaped, red barn, typical of the New England countryside. A large silo stood next to it like its overprotective big brother.
Billy parked in front of his new home, and exited into a sun-drenched afternoon—a record high temperature for the tenth of September. In a dramatic twist from the morning rain showers, the sky now looked like Monet had brush-stroked it with oranges and reds, and the smells of Saturday afternoon barbecues filled the air. It was as if the once-dreary day was given a fresh start. Billy took a deep breath, and then headed toward what he hoped would be his own fresh start.
He passed an 800-series black BMW, confirming that this place might be just a bit out of his price range. He still wasn’t sure why they had rented the cottage to him at such a bargain cost. Just rich people doing some charity work, he guessed.
Chuck Whitcomb answered the door, wearing a Speak Slow I Only Speak Canadian T-shirt and mesh baseball hat. Standing almost six-foot-two, Billy didn’t have to gaze upward to look many people in the eye, but Chuck was at least six-foot-six. He reminded Billy of many he encountered growing up in Johnstown, Pennsylvania. Honest working-class folks who slaved in the local mill all week so that they could spend their Friday night cheering-on Billy Harper, the local hero of the moment. Based on the ritzy neighborhood, Billy had expected someone more resembling his swanky former in-laws.
Chuck greeted Billy affably and led him into the barn, which actually had been converted into an exquisite home. Billy was just as impressed as he was last Monday, on Labor Day, when he came to view the guest cottage the Whitcombs were renting.
Billy followed Chuck into an expansive open area. The interior was dominated by heavy, honey colored timber. Large wood beams shot horizontally across the room, giving it a secure feel. A cathedral ceiling soared up two stories, arching at the top. To his left, a spiral staircase led to a second floor overhang that reminded Billy of a balcony in an old-time movie theater. On his right was an elaborately decorated, but comfortable looking living room area that featured a large fieldstone fireplace.
“Carolyn is upstairs with a little fever and Beth is setting up for the birthday party tomorrow. So it’ll be just you and me,” Chuck said as he pulled Billy toward the kitchen.
Billy nodded hesitantly, still expecting Chuck to come to his senses about renting him the cottage.
The country-style kitchen was an impressive blend of wide-beamed wood flooring and whitewashed wood trim. An adjacent breakfast nook ushered in streams of powerful sunlight through oversized windows, which reflected off a cluster of copper pots and pans that hung over an island stove.
Beth Whitcomb stood at the kitchen sink washing a plastic cereal bowl. She was probably no older than mid-twenties, about ten years Chuck’s junior. Her strawberry blonde hair was cut into a simple bob with box layers, and light freckles dotted her fair skin. She wore a flowered sundress filled with pinks and greens, but while the dress was soft and breezy, her stony demeanor was anything but carefree.
Chuck walked to his wife and hunched downward to give her a mood-changing kiss on the cheek. “How’s my girl?”
She actually smiled. “Do you mean me or Carolyn?”
“I know how amazing you are—how’s she doing?”
“Fever’s down—taking a nap upstairs.”
As Billy observed Chuck and Beth, he thought he’d put the story together since his initial visit last week. Beth was a Boulanger. In fact, she and her sister, Dana—who had set up his meeting with the Whitcombs—were princesses in the Boulanger Kingdom. He figured that Beth married Chuck, the common man, to be her court jester. But Billy knew one day the princess would realize that she preferred a prince. And she wouldn’t be satisfied to just leave, she’d take his most cherished possessions with her—the ones that touch the soul. It was a story Billy was too familiar with. And it wasn’t a good story. As a writer, albeit an unpublished and penniless one, he knew a good story contained suspense. He already knew how this story would end—there was no suspense.
Chuck pulled out two perspiring bottles from the refrigerator, receiving a dirty look from Beth.
“Beer, eh?” he offered in his Canadian twang, and Billy accepted the bottle of Klein’s. Noticing the label, he almost laughed out loud at the irony—he just couldn’t escape from the past.
As he twisted off the top, Billy could feel Beth’s glare on the back of his neck. When they first met last week, her first words to him were, “When I pictured who my sister would send us to look at the cottage, you are exactly what I imagined.”
“What’s that?” Billy had asked.
“The good looking, T-shirt and jeans type. The wavy hair, the charming smile, and oh, Dana loves a cute dimple.”
Billy touched his dimpled chin, briefly impressed with himself, before noticing Chuck’s slumping body language. Billy realized he was about to take a punch-line across the nose.
“But of course there is the other side to Dana’s men,” Beth continued.
“Her men? She’s my agent, not my girlfriend. I think you have the wrong idea.”
Beth rolled her eyes, as if to say she’d seen this movie before. “Dana’s men are always starving artists who end up living off of her like parasites. They also just got out of some complicated relationship, and have a fifty-fifty shot of having a drinking problem.”
It was obvious to Billy that she wouldn’t rent him the cottage at gunpoint, even if he could afford it, which he clearly couldn’t. So he decided he was done being shit on.
“Divorce became official about a year ago. I do have a job at the Shoreline Times here in New Canaan, which Dana got for me, although I don’t have the four thousand a month you’re asking for rent, not even close. And lastly, I don’t have a drinking problem. I happen
to like drinking—it’s not a problem!”
At that point it would’ve taken a miracle from above for him to be moving in six days later. And that’s exactly what happened.
A sudden thunder boomed through the air, and cascaded down from the balcony overhang. Billy looked up to witness a small girl barreling down the stairs like a precocious barrel of energy. As she did, she let out an innocent giggle that bounced off the acoustics. She wore a denim dress with butterflies embroidered on it, and her tiny sandals looked as if they’d fly off her feet as she bounced down the stairs at an excited pace.
The first thing Billy noticed was her eyes—two big saucers of hazel. Her brown hair was in double ponytails that jetted from both sides of her head. Her apple cheeks resonated with joy. When she reached the bottom, her eyes locked on Billy and her face scrunched, seemingly in deep thought.
She reminded him of the character Boo from Monsters, Inc. The little girl who accidentally got stuck in the world of monsters. Carolyn Whitcomb wasn’t an animated character, but her demeanor was definitely animated.
“Who are you?” she finally asked, her voice containing a slight muffled lisp. When she opened her mouth, exposing her tongue, Billy understood why.
“I’m Billy, what’s your name?”
She stuck her chest out proudly and stated, “I’m Carolyn Whitcomb, but you can call me Princess.”
There was nothing pretentious about the statement. It actually reminded Billy of an innocence he once knew. Their bond was instant, and the princess would eventually cast the deciding vote as to whether Billy would be offered the cottage. Or at least that’s the way that Chuck portrayed it to him.
It was a decision that still baffled him. Not just because he couldn’t afford the rent, but also because part of his rental agreement was that he would care for Carolyn during the day. By the looks of things, the Whitcombs could afford a team of nannies, but that still wasn’t it. What he found most odd was that they never asked him the basic background questions—the ones about being arrested for a violent crime—that when he would refuse to answer, his silence would’ve convicted him, and ruled him out of any such responsibility.