Life Struggles (Life Stories Book 1) (17 page)

“We're closed until construction is completed. Go someplace else.” Security guard was not smiling. If this was a campground that wanted paying customers, it sure had a funny way of making them feel welcome.

“Can I just go in and look around?” Another believable question.

“No. Turn around and go back the way you came.” The not-quite-English guy wasn't smiling. I turned around and started back.

The truck driver may not have been looking for someone following him, but I did. And before I left the driveway there was a blue SUV coming down after me. I should have dropped breadcrumbs on my way in, but I hadn't. I put “Knoxville Airport” into the GPS, which helpfully said “Please drive to highlighted route.” The problem was that nothing was highlighted.

Well, I knew if I went the wrong direction it would eventually tell me it needed to recalculate, so I turned left to go back the way we had come. A couple of wrong turns, and eventually I could see a highlighted route. I just sort of aimed for it and, after two dead ends, found myself in Gatlinburg. With a blue SUV still on my tail.

I continued up Route 441 and it turned off. Thank God. I guess I was getting paranoid. I headed straight back to my hotel and tried to call Jeff Cronin. I left a message. So I wrote up what I had found. Basically, the Tennvol Campground was nothing of the sort. It was fenced, gated and guarded, and had about one megawatt of generating power. Security was tight. It was worth a serious look. I sent the report off to Jeff.

I had put the chain on the door to my room just like I always do in a hotel. You never know when a drunk will barge in on you going into the wrong room. And, that blue SUV still had me spooked. I had seen a steak house just outside of town and decided to head there for dinner.

I looked through the peephole and nobody was outside. I must be getting paranoid, but I looked both ways in the corridor before heading to the elevator. Nobody rode down with me, so that was good. I got in the car and exited the parking lot. The steakhouse was a couple miles out of town, and I was looking forward to a decent dinner. I hadn't eaten anything since the free breakfast.

I got about a mile out of town when a car pulled out to pass me. I figured he was drunk from the way he swerved. The next thing I knew I was in a ditch. I hit the OnStar emergency button before the driver's window shattered and I heard somebody yelling at me. Damn that sounds like an off-kilter English accent. Then the world went dark.

Chapter Nineteen

I woke up in the back of an SUV with my hands and legs tied. This shit was getting old. At least this time I probably wouldn't wind up with a butt-plug in my ass. Luke told me what the rubber thing had been. I didn't ask for details.

“Who are you?” That was the friendly greeter. This was not looking good. And I still had my library books to take back.

“I'm Ethan McQuade, a reporter for the New Orleans
Daily Post
. I'm doing an article on newer campgrounds in the South and wanted to look at yours. Who are you?” I hoped they believed me. Then again, even if they did, they had me tied up and I had to assume they realized I knew who the lousy English accent belonged to.

“Wat doen ons met hom?” That was another guy in the same uniform. Great, one guy with a lousy English accent and another one speaking incredibly bad German.

“Ons kan nie laat hom gaan.” That was the sort-of English guy. This was getting weird.

What do I mean,
getting
weird? I was forced off the road, kidnapped and tied up. Martians would have been
getting
weird, these guys' speech was just a footnote to the existing weirdness.

“What do you guys want?” I needed to get them speaking in English if I was going to be able to figure out what was going on. Two problems with that. A, I think I already knew what was going on and hoped that Special Agent Cronin checked his voicemail and email, and B, What was I going to do about it anyway?

“We want to know who sent you.” That was second guy, who could have been a weight-lifter cousin to friendly greeter guy.

“My managing editor sent me. You can call the paper and talk to him. His name is Melvin Price. New Orleans
Daily Post
. The number is…” I was cut off.

“Ja, we found your press card and called the paper already. They said you were out of the office.” This should have made me feel better. Confirming who I was didn't look like it was going to make my situation any better, because they'd already done that and my situation looked pretty hopeless.

“We take you with us.” At least they weren't going to kill me and dump me here by the side of the road. They were going to kill me and dump me somewhere else. That's much better.

I heard a siren in the background. Maybe the police were on their way? I had hit the emergency button on the OnStar thing and they'll send somebody. I hope. But they'll send somebody to the car, and all I can see is darkness. I don't think they stayed by my car to have our pleasant chat.

Weight lifter guy got in the driver's seat and friendly greeter guy moved to the front passenger seat. We started moving and were soon on a decent paved road. I think I recognized a few landmarks and figured we were headed toward Pigeon Forge and Gatlinburg.

They hadn't bothered buckling me in, but I could hardly see how that was going to do me any good. In fact, the female end of the buckle was under my ass and it was uncomfortable. Not to mention it had a very sharp edge that had poked a hole in my pants. Great, now I won't be dressed properly for my funeral.

The sharp edge kept tearing my pants further and further. Then it hit me. Maybe? I moved my wrists over to the sharp edge and ran the rope across it. Wonderful. It was sharp enough to poke a hole in my clothes, but with the rope it felt more like sawing against a spoon. This wasn't going to work. But, I had no better ideas, so I kept sawing away.

After twenty minutes I had made no progress on cutting the rope, but the sharp edge caught on something. I strained to my left to try and get it unstuck, and all it did was make the rope tighter. So, I strained to my right and it made the rope a little looser. Another strain to the right and it loosened a bit. Another lean to my right and it loosened some more. Three more and I could get a hand out.

Rope was still tied to my right hand, but it was free. I got to work on the rope around my ankles, but I had to bend over to do so.

“What the fuck are you doing?” That was weight lifter, who had seen me bow my head in the rear view mirror.

“I'm getting car sick.” It was all I could think of.

“If you vomit in my car I'll beat the shit out of you.” That was weight lifter again. Since I was going to die anyway, what's a little beating? The threat was meaningless. I kept my head down and my fingers busy until I had my ankles free, then sat back up.

“I'm feeling better now.” Friendly greeter assured me that I should enjoy it, because it wasn't going to last long.

When I sat up I saw signs for hotels all over the place. Then a sign for Dollywood. I was in Pigeon Forge, which should be called “The city of stoplights.” Every couple of blocks there was a light. Except in front of us they were all green. I wasn't going to get a chance to escape at a red light. So, I'll have to do it on a green light. The next intersection I opened the door and fell out.

Dropping from a moving car at twenty five miles an hour isn't as much fun as you might think. I felt something in my ankle give way, then my head hit the pavement. Then a motorcycle ran over me. Then I saw the SUV burn rubber down the road. I was safe.

“What the fuck are you doing?” That was a very large, very fat man dressed all in leather. “My bike is wrecked, you cocksucker.” Then he kicked me.

Fortunately somebody got out of a car and came to see what was going on. Very large fat man in leather was standing over a pile of clothes with spreading blood stains. The pile of clothes moaned, and somebody called an ambulance.

A few minutes later an EMT was kneeling next to me taking my vitals. “Can you breathe? Are you hurt? What's your name? What happened?”

Yes I can breathe. Yes I am hurt. My name is Ethan. What happened is kidnapping and terrorists and blood.

“Ethan, the bleeding looks worse than it probably is, don't worry about it. I'm not a terrorist, I'm a medic. Look, we're going to take you to a hospital.” Thank God.

In the ambulance I lay on a stretcher of some sort and the EMT was speaking into a microphone. “Enroute Ten-Fifty PI. ETA six minutes. Probable Ten-Ninety-Six.”

I'd watched enough television drama to know that Ten-Fifty PI meant an accident with personal injury. Ten-Ninety-Six was a mystery. Maybe it meant journalist?

The next thing I knew I was on a bed with a youngster about Alex's age asking me questions. “Where are you?” In an ambulance. “What year is it?” Ah, 1776? “What happened? Kidnapping and terrorists and blood weapons.

“Doctor Phil to Emergency, Doctor Phil to Emergency.” Hmmm. I wonder what that means.

An older woman appeared and ordered a CT of my head and neck. I tried to talk about kidnapping and terrorists, but she wasn't paying a lot of attention.

“Haloperidol lactate two milligrams IM STAT.” Hunh, I thought that was for crazy people. Then I started feeling very relaxed and had trouble controlling my muscles. In a couple of minutes I forgot what was so important I had to tell them.

“FBI.” I tried that after my head got out of the CT machine.

“How long have you been with the FBI?” That was the radiology technician. Fuck. This was not going as well as I had hoped.

From the CT scan I was sent to X-Ray for my ankle. Nobody wanted to listen to what I wanted to say, but I had a lot of trouble remembering what that was.

Chapter Twenty

I woke up in a hospital room. I tried to move my arms but they were apparently tied to the bed. My legs too. I couldn't really think straight. My mouth felt like I had eaten a package of cotton balls. And I was thirsty as hell.

“Water.” I said that every two minutes until a nurse showed up four days later. Actually, I think it was thirty minutes, but four days does make a better story.

“Here, have some water. Drink it slowly.” She put a straw in my mouth. Slowly wasn't slow enough, and I choked. She pulled back the straw.

“Now, are you going to drink this slowly, or do I have to take it away?” The nurse wasn't being very nice. I asked for Cheryl. That didn't go over very well, either.

Finally she let me have a short sip, which helped. “Now, what is your name?”

Shit, the funny-speaking guys had taken my wallet. “I'm Ethan. Who are you?”

“I'm Maryann. What's your last name, Ethan?” I told her.

“Well, Ethan McQuade, it's almost time for your medication. I'll be back shortly.” She left. Now what?

When she returned the fuzziness in my brain had lessened slightly. She filled a syringe with some sort of liquid and told me she was going to give me a shot in the hip. I told her no. She said it was doctor's orders and I told her to get the doctor. She used the call button to summon help. The large guy coming in the door didn't look like a doctor. He looked like a professional wrestler.

“Arty, help me keep him still.” That was the nurse, of course, and Arty did what she asked. The injection didn't really hurt that much and the fuzziness was back.

Eventually the older woman came in and talked to me. “What happened to you?”

I tried to tell her about kidnapping and terrorists and a campground and using blood as a weapon. She didn't seem impressed.

“Where are you from?” I told her I was from New Orleans and was a reporter for the
Daily Post
. I asked her to call the paper.

They brought me lunch, such as it was. I was still restrained, so Arty came in and fed me. It was the worst fucking turkey sandwich I'd ever had. I asked him about my ankle.

“Sprained pretty bad, not broken.” That was the sum of Arty's entire conversation. I got a couple spoons of apple sauce fed to me, then he took the tray away. I fell asleep.

“Ethan, wake up.” I knew that voice. It sure as shit wasn't Cheryl. I told him to go away.

“Ethan, wake your ass up so you can get out of here.” How could I get out of here with my arms and legs tied to the bed? I asked him that.

“Lift your right arm.” OK, I lifted my right arm. Shit, it wasn't tied down. I saw the nurse come in with a syringe.

“No. No more drugs. Call the FBI.” I wasn't getting any more fuzzy headed shit injected into me.

“I am the FBI.” That's when I took a good look. It was Jeff Cronin. “She's going to give you something to counteract some of the effects of the drug they gave you.”

The nurse gave me another shot in the hip. “Benztropine” she said. Fuck if I know what that is. But very shortly my muscles started behaving themselves a bit better.

I was still fuzzy-headed and walking with a limp. Jeff helped me out of bed and the nurse dressed me. I decided Cheryl did a better job, except she was usually undressing me. Oh, well.

Jeff led me down the hall and to an elevator. I was being sprung! Except I wasn't. We stopped on the second floor and went into a conference room. The head guy was there along with half a dozen other people.

“We've read the report and refocused on Tennvol.” He showed me a picture obviously taken from an airplane. “Is this the site where you were?”

It sort of looked like it. I hadn't seen much of it, but I could see the road coming up to a clearing, and a fence, and a small guard shack. There were buildings maybe half a mile from the entrance. Yeah, that could be it.

“Tell us about the guys who took you.” I told them they were professional security people, muscular and not very nice. They both spoke with a fucked-up English accent, and also spoke some sort of German that sounded really strange.

One of the doctors said, “Hy is dood, dood te maak hem nou?” That sounded sort of like it and I told him.

“Afrikaans. I did a fellowship in Capetown. South African I would guess. By the way, that's ‘He's dead, let's kill him now.’” Hunh. Maybe he knew Weightlifter guy.

“Can you walk?” That was head guy again. It didn't sound like he was being solicitous either. Yes, I can walk. I just don't want to.