Sorrel, as a result of miraculously good timing, had escaped, at least for the time being, the eager scalpel of Hadamar's most infamous doctor, but her safety, like all things, was ephemeral, a momentary interruption in what might still be a long painfully slow and odiously ugly submersion into the abyss.
Questions arose about Sorrel. Did she know things? Did she have secret information? Did Sorrel possess vital secret information about say 'stuxnet', the malware virus that had been unleashed on Iran's nuclear machinery, or maybe she possessed knowledge of some other equally strange and equally exotic computer virus as yet to be hurled at some 'Western' adversary?
The answer to the question of Sorrel's knowledge of vital secrets, secrets of any kind, was of course, she knew nothing. But under torture people have been be persuaded to confess to anything, say anything, fabricate anything.
Sorrel had been a strong woman all her life, but no one was ever strong enough when the right procedures have been applied.
Questioning techniques like water boarding, a relatively soft, though still brutal and internationally banned, torture tool had been used, secretly, inside the borders of the United States with impunity. But the real torture methodologies, the really robust measures required deportation to some friendly, though less scrupulous, third world nation.
If Sorrel were to be successfully removed from the relatively safe confines of her own home nation, one could only imagine the joys; the pleasures that might await her in say Egypt, Yemen, or even now the conspiratorially friendly Iraq. Yes the Middle East, that vast depot where Twelfth Century interrogation methods had melded with Twenty-first Century technologies and old fashioned feudalistic zeal.
Somewhere in that vast emptiness, that voiceless mindless human rights wilderness known as the Middle East there awaited an overzealous technician armed with the torture technologies of a grim forbidding past, the merciless new mechanism of the present; plus, to poor Sorrel's chagrin, the emotional and psychological temperament of a Tomas de Torquemada, that most feared and most despicable of Sixteenth Century Inquisitors.
Oh what hellish, vicious, cruel, things awaited the beautiful and unsuspecting Sorrel Sullivan? Could it be someone had already connected the electronics of modern man to a Sixteenth Century Rack? Had some crazed maniac been sharpening the vicious scythe-like edges of a modern day Breast Ripper? Have the hinges of the Iron Maiden been sufficiently greased? Did someone remember to sufficiently hone the cruel steel tips of the Judas Cradle? What of the Wheel; how many of Sorrel's delicate bones might be broken and woven into its pitiless spokes? Had the Judas Fork been steel tipped?
One could only imagine with utter terror the sharpened tools that awaited poor Sorrel's anatomical cavities. What of poor innocent Sorrel's sweet ears, her delicate nostrils, her beautiful mouth, that gorgeous peach of an anus, and oh woe, what savage terrors lurked under that dark silken cloth resting atop that broad metal table; all ready to penetrate her most secret, most personal, most sacred of places?
Then again, the waiting inquisitor might be a modernist; some pseudo-sophisticate, a contemporary 'apparatchik' only too willing and too ready to earn promotion and recognition through the despicable devices at his, or her, disposal. Consider the chemicals, the biological, or the neurological treats that might await our precious heroine.
Could it be something as simple as a drug that emulated the worst aspects of a serious case of influenza? Or perhaps something more innovative; say something that attacked the middle ear; imagine the excitement of watching someone as they tried to escape the thunderous drumbeat of an artificially imposed migraine headache.
All these things could be awaiting our sweet protagonist; these and many more. No one dared to mention the unlimited possibilities of permanent disfigurement. Consider the loss of the nose, an ear, the removal of an eyelid, the whisking away of those soft nipples Fletcher found so tempting, or those colorful and sensitive aureoles; all things can be made possible where no rules apply.
Thank God Sorrel had no idea what possible treats the diseased minds of her own nation might have ready for her. Give God thanks Fletcher had no clue either, for such knowledge would surely have driven him mad. Only Florence and Warren knew what might lie in store, and thankfully, it happened to be Florence who had taken on the challenge of rescuing our maiden fair.
Give it up for Florence! She's working out a plan!
Florence knew they had to rescue Sorrel before the people who held her got her out of the United States; for once out of the country she might end up anywhere. To save her before she left the country Florence needed information. It was not a new thing; all governments all armies worked best when they knew and understood what their enemy's plans were. She knew what they intended; she needed to know when and how, and to get that information she needed someone on the inside. The first step in that direction was going to require some negotiation with Warren.
Warren was in a deep world of shit, and he knew it. Both his brother and Florence had unraveled his subterfuge. Warren was a hapless duck, a fish out of water, a piece of odorous shit floating haphazardly in the yellow piss water of a not yet flushed toilet. He needed their benevolence, and he knew neither was feeling very benevolent. Still, he had one trump left. He had the key to the first step on the inside track to Sorrel, and without knowledge of that first step Sorrel was sunk. The question was; what was his single piece of information worth?
The very afternoon after Florence, Fletcher, and Warren had met following Sorrel's close call at the butcher's Warren was visited by three men in dark suits. Three agents, presumably from the SEC, were at his portal. They explained that they'd received a phone call from a reliable source wherein someone had enumerated several violations of marketing regulations and attributed them all to Warren Hanson.
Warren was taken by surprise. He was sure his trail had been thoroughly covered. He did the best he could to deflect their questions. Using bluff and bluster; he managed to gain a three day grace period before opening his records. After the agents left he called Florence. He was in a panic.
Of course, the agents who'd visited Warren weren't SEC personnel at all. Florence had immediately hired three people to impersonate SEC investigators. Her ruse had worked. Warren would still want to negotiate, but he would be negotiating out of fear now more than ever. He would be much more amenable when it came time for them to talk.
Florence wasn't in any hurry to get Sorrel out just yet anyway. Her first concerns regarded Fletcher, keeping him on an even keel, and in finding a way to get a message inside to Sorrel. Florence believed if they waited a few days before taking any action on Sorrel the Hadamar people might become lax, less focused on Sorrel, making it easier to free her when the time came.
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Sorrel was crying hysterically. She'd felt the metal scalpel, or whatever it was, press up against the inside of her eye. She knew how close she'd come.
The nurses had fastened her in the wheelchair and taken her to yet another room. This was the fourth room she believed they'd taken her. When they reached the room one unlocked the door while the other rolled her in. The nurses didn't tarry. They unfastened her fetters, and unceremoniously left her in the room; no discussion, no explanations, and no solace.
The nurses had discharged their patient. It was time for lunch, and the pizza was getting cold. The woman they'd left in the room could be handled later.
Sorrel looked around at her new domicile. It was, more or less, what she expected; a bed, sort of, more of that cold green linoleum flooring, gray cinder block walls, no windows, two recessed fluorescent lights, that were a change from the incandescent bulbs the other rooms had all had, and there was one small chair clearly bolted to the floor.
The bed was of the same disheartening style she'd found in the first room; not very long, narrow, and a flexible metal cage that could be lowered over her once she was tucked in. There were no coverings; only a gray vinyl mattress, no pillow, no coverlets of any kind. She'd be caged in bed during sleep times, and, she believed, probably any other times they wanted her closely confined; though she couldn't imagine anything more confining than this small room.
She took note of the door for the first time, and noticed it was different in some important ways. First this door opened outward, not inward. Though she doubted she'd ever have the opportunity, but if they ever left her to her own devices, as was the case at the moment, she wouldn't be able to surprise anyone by hiding behind the door. It really mattered very little; hiding behind the door might have afforded a better chance for surprise and then perhaps escape, but she had no idea where she might escape to if she did get loose.
The door, she saw had a small window at just about eye level, or eye level for someone a little taller then she; just the kind of window one might have seen in some medieval castle, or an insane asylum.
Then again, from another perspective, the window was mirrored; meaning a one way aperture; like some cell in an old Soviet prison. They'd be able to see her from the outside without her being able to see them. However, it was a mirrored opening; it was her first opportunity to see herself since she'd been abducted. She used the chance to see what she looked like.
Oh! She looked awful! Dark circles under the eyes, no eyebrows, no eyelashes, hair a jumbled mess, and she was building a nice shiner where the nurse had clamped her eyelid back. She looked sallow, tired, and malnourished.
At first she thought it was awful. But wait a minute! No it wasn't awful! It was great! She could see herself, and she knew who she was. They hadn't lobotomized her. She still had her brain, her personality, and most of all, her sense of humor, or better, her sense of whimsy.
Sorrel went back over and sat on the bed. It was hard, uncomfortable, and she'd be caged in it when she slept. That was the worst of it, at least for the moment.
But there were other things to consider. She knew, she really knew, and she really did know, that Fletcher was hunting for her. She bet he had something to do with the stoppage of her butchery.
She thought about it. The phone had rung. Someone; somewhere had intervened. Yes! Somewhere outside, out in the free world she had a hero, a man on a brilliant white steed with a long javelin, or whatever those long spears were called knights used. Yes! Her Galahad was campaigning for her at that very moment! When he came she'd be ready.
Sorrel looked around the room; back at the door. She could handle this! She checked out the door again. There was a bracket for a door handle and there was a key hole, but no door knob or handle. So what! So she couldn't get out. She had a hero. He'd come. He'd break the damn door down. He'd rescue her, and when he did she show her gratitude. They raise their kids together. They make some more kids. They'd overfill that damn house with so many mouths they'd need a bigger house.
She sank down on the bed and wept. It sounded good. Maybe too good; but he had to come. Would he come? God she hoped so. Of course he'd come. He just had to! Meantime she had Peter and Little Sorrel to worry about. Were they OK? She hoped so.
She got off her ass and plopped her knees on the floor. She needed to pray.
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After the meeting with Florence and Warren where they agreed to turn things over to Florence Fletcher went home. He had to speak with Byron and Mary and he had to invent some kind of plausible story about Sorrel's disappearance for the kids. It wasn't going to be easy. Hell, Little Sorrel and Peter; Sorrel's two kids, hadn't even been back with their mother a week and she was gone again. His own kids were a problem too; especially Marion who'd become so attached to Sorrel so fast.
He pulled in the driveway, but didn't go straight in the front door. He got out and slipped around the back. He was careful; he didn't think anyone had seen him pull up. He wanted to walk down to the grove. It was in the grove where he'd made a little memorial to his first wife Diana. That's where he went when he wanted to think, talk to his deceased wife, and sometimes pray, and today was a day he really needed help.
He got down to the grove and flopped down on the small bench he'd built. It sat beside Diana's little memorial. He started talking, "Diana I really need some help right now. I know you don't mind me and Sorrel. I know you'd like her. But now she's in trouble, and I'm really worried."
That's how he started most of his conversations with his deceased wife; first a request, followed by some kind of mea culpa, and then straight prayer.
He started, "Diana I need an angel. I need guidance. What am I going to say to these kids? Sorrel's little ones don't deserve this. Mine don't deserve it either."
He was down on his knees, one arm resting on the bench the other holding Diana's little marker, "Tell me what to do."
From out of nowhere he felt a hand on his shoulder!
He almost jumped out of his skin. Someone had put their hand on him. He turned around half expecting to see Diana. It was his daughter Marion.
