Chapter V
t was Sharon's turn to watch the little sliding panel being slid up about six inches, just enough to allow a small tin plate with what looked like fried dog food on it, then a tin of water. For a toilet was a hole in the corner with a lid.
"Better than nothing or a bucket," she thought.
She had no idea as to how long she had been out, but she had a good recollection of how she had been manipulated to the point of where they gassed her. From that point, it was a total blank. At least her clothes didn't feel as if they'd been removed or put back on her. Of that, she was thankful.
"Can you tell me anything about where I am? Why I'm here? where my husband is?" she asked cautiously but in quick succession.
No answer. She saw the little door slide down into place, heard the bolt driven into place and then the shuffle as the attendant headed off down the hall.
She was certainly not hungry enough to eat the vile substance on the plate, but thirsty enough to drink the muddy water in the tin cup. There certainly was not enough of it. At that, she laid back down on the little cot, folded the foam pillow but couldn't get it fixed.
She sat back up on the bed, straightened the course pillow case, and lay back down. After pounding the pillow into submission, folding it and moving it until it fit her head tolerably, she drifted off to sleep.
Somewhere in the recesses of her mind she was reliving another incident at being captive. "Life sure has been unexpectedly exciting and not without mystery since I married you William Travis," she thought in her dream. "I wonder what we'll be up against next week?" she thought as she dreamed.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
For some reason, Williams mind kept returning to the trip he'd taken north prior to the murder of Greg Wheaton. It had been as a get-away from the presence lurking within his house, and the ties that the computer was bringing him under. William remembered wandering around in the little town, not much more than a wide spot in the road, and, seeing the old rambling house amidst the foliage set back off the road.
But he hadn't approached it that day had he? The memory of seeing the old house was trying to resurface, but something kept blocking it's rise to remembrance. How could it possibly have something to do with the Crawly Caper? Was Greg Wheaton involved in some other unsavory business besides running a huge construction company and driving everybody else to the brink of Bankruptcy?
Unbeknownst to William, Roy Planter, his boss at the Title Company was holding up for him while he was away. Greg Wheaton wanted William fired, when Roy wouldn't have him fired simply because William had saved Roy a lot of money, Greg put out a contract on his head.
William had already cost Greg a huge amount of money, but worse, he'd nearly been discovered in the raw deal which would net him millions if he could get Williams mouth sealed.
There were several things going on in Williams life at that time which would adversely affect him and his bride in the future. Greg Wheaton was trying to have William killed, Roy Planter was trying to save his life, his job, and, his own life, reputation, and financial career. Because of Roy's opposition to harm William, now he was being attacked by Greg.
Greg's contract on Williams head was nearly honored. Once while he was visiting the little town on a getaway, an attempt was made on his life. But the agent used to render William unconscious worked so well, he never knew he'd been brought to this dungeon.
But he had awakened out of his sleep long enough to look around, and had nearly gotten away. When the deal for the payoff fell through, he received a shot of Flourthane gas as he sat at the table under armed guard.
The second dose, when administered put him out enough that he woke up in his motel room never knowing when they'd returned him.
Now that he was back here, strains of memory insisted on coming to light despite Williams inability to make sense of them.
But why was William here now? The owner of the raspy voice had kept up on the news, and knew William was now an FBI agent. When he was found on the property, he was assumed to be looking into the inappropriate business of information smuggling, in other words, spying. If William had locked away what the news had inferred, he was worth a fortune. If he could not be made to recall the info, then he was but a mere liability, and must be dealt with.
The Russian spy who had attempted to honor the contract on Williams head four years ago, now figured he could finish out his years as a spy in short order, hopefully, with a hefty nest egg to feed him the rest of his days in some country other than the cold and dreary Russia to which he was destined to return.
When the money came available for the hit, William was far out of their grasp and therefore the chance to obtaining the hit and finishing same.
And now, his chance had walked right back into his life, and was waiting to serve him up the reason for his golden nest egg. The problem with the golden nest egg was, hit money was in an escrow account at Greg Wheatons' bank . . . . And the problem with that was, Greg Wheaton was dead.
Never let it be said that the old adage, "There's honor among thieves," is null and void. It Isn't. The owner of the raspy old voice was known to William. William just didn't know that the owner of the voice, who always seemed to have money, was always traveling, and who was always so quiet, an acquaintance of his, was a hit man on the sly, and had actually once lived right beside him.
Even so, William was just about to get a lesson on how God takes care of His own. Even before he came to Christ, William would eventually learn that God had been taking care of and protecting him all along.
The man with the raspy voice was none other than Randal Jamison, or Randal Bachman or "Dr." Randal . . . the man who'd set the explosives in his plane trying to kill him. The problem is, he nearly killed Sharon as well. So it turns out that Randal Jamison, or Bachman, or "Dr. Randal, was little more than a Russian spy turned hitman. They had actually been neighbors to Will and Sharon.
Will remembered how Randal and Kelly "Bachman" had moved in so quickly after the Linkhams, the old couple who'd lived there for many years just up and moved for no reason. Now, he wondered about them and made a mental note to check in on their whereabouts if he ever got out of this mess. Could it be they met with some foul play? Were they forced to move?
William remembered when he'd removed the disks out of their hiding place the view he'd gotten of Kelly Bachmans' chest, and that Chief Siegal had shown up at his door un-announced and figured out then, that he was being watched. By whom? Then it dawned on him. It was Kelly Bachman who was doing the spying! And she had all the time in the world to go over every fiber of that house . . . all under the guise of "keeping it clean."
But, something else that didn't fit. Randal had been killed in Las Vegas . . . . or had he?
Williams mind was mulling over item after item, many issues, and the many discrepancies that still didn't make sense in his life. Suddenly his blood ran cold as he remembered something said to him before he was captured. The raspy voice asked, "For what have you returned William . . . "
The memories began to flood in and come into perspective. A couple of them even began to make sense. There had been mention made of a contract on Williams head at one time. Could the contract have been renewed? Could finalization of the contract have been called in, and the order given to honor it? William couldn't get any details past those issues to bear light on his current train of thought.
Suddenly, his skin ran cold again. A knock on the door of the dungeon brought him out of his deep meditation, and a voice he clearly knew spoke. "Hello William," . . . a pause.
Williams' mind raced to recognize the voice. Suddenly, it came to bear. It was Dr. Randal, or, Randal Jamison, or Randal Bachman . . . whoever he was. "Ah, Dr. Randal. Fancy meeting you here! I thought you died in Law Vegas.
William remembered the voices, and the language he'd heard him speak to Kelly. That's it! The language had been Russian, and Kelly, quite the eye candy, was his er . . . bride, er accomplice, er partner . . . . whatever, she was in cahoots with him. And, he remembered the voice Randal had made when they were playing a game over at their house one night.
"So, you're quite a smart man William! You've figured out who I am. Bravo, bravo!"
Williams mind was racing. He could hear the Russian brogue in Randals' voice now that he knew who he was. It just never occurred to him before that he might be a foreigner.
"So," William ventured. What happened to the Linkhams? Did you set explosives to their car somewhere to get rid of them?" William finished. He meant to get as much information as he possibly could.
"Ah, but you always were the devious one now, weren't you? Randal was playing with William. "Such a nice couple to end that way. I don't think the great Police department of Stillwell Creek Township ever figured out the wreck and resulting fire was anything more than an unfortunate accident."
"That pesky little daughter of theirs suspected something and was making a fuss until she herself had an accident . . . at the same curve! Ha ha ha ha ha . . . I must admit, Kelly outdid herself on that one!" he finished.
The deep laugh chilled William, but, now, it all began to come together. Now, it was plain. Randal and Kelly were Russian plants in a target rich environment and had acquired a chance of a lifetime through William. First, they now had the chance to collect the nest egg promised them for taking out William with the original contract, but, a much greater nest egg with the Russian government and their want of the information on the disks.
"I destroyed the disks, and it was common knowledge what had happened to them." William stated. "Why the sudden interest in me? I certainly don't have the programs, and the knowledge they contained."
"Ah . . . William. You bore me with your game of playing dumb. You, the smart one, the devious one, the one who always wrangled out of situations, how, sometimes for the life of me, I do not know."
"Are you trying to switch the tables on my and to play me for being dumb? Come on. Cut the games."
Randals voice was taking on a chill and edge to it. William had no doubts the man was a trained killer, and, killing him would be of no importance nor of killing Sharon. "Dr." Randal had already demonstrated his skills and lack of remorse for killing.
The thought of Sharon was suddenly foremost in his mind. "I trust you've treated Sharon better than you have me. She has no part in what you want." William queried
"Sharon is close, quiet, and acting quite nicely. Although I certainly have noticed a change in her. There's something different about her, and, as a matter of fact, I've noticed a change in you. Your demeanor, the way you carry yourself, your attitude . . . I can't put my finger on it as of yet, but, I wouldn't have figured the FBI training you've both been through would have an impact on you like that." Randal finished.
"Obviously, you haven't had as close of an eye on me as you thought Randal. It's quite plain you've missed some time watching me." William said with an interested tone in his voice. "Had you been watching me closely, you would know what has changed in my life to which I can attribute so great an effect on me. I wish to share it with you." he finished.
"Whoa now! Surely you can't mean that time you spent at the little church in Las Vegas changed you!" Randal queried incredulously. I can't believe that someone so knowledgeable as you would fall for such a thing as religion! I don't believe in God, nor in religion! I'm growing more bored with you by the second. I don't know how I stood it when we played those games at your house. William, you Americans are certainly a boring lot!
William had struck a nerve, and he thought he knew exactly which nerve it was. Randal was sick of his life, and, he didn't know how to get out of it. This, was turning out to be, Williams Life Sentence . . . This was Williams reason for life! He knew now, that like the great Apostle Paul, he was in prison now for a specific job, a duty, a reason to live: the chance to spread Life. Oh, how he wished he could explain the joys of living for Christ!
William, caught up in his own special moment in the Spirit, never knew when Randal walked away. Randal was disgusted with this whole scene, and his own opinion was that this was a waste of time. But Kelly held on to the nest egg dream. She, in more ways than one, was more vicious than Randal. Her presence had not been detected by William all the time he was held captive in Las Vegas, but, she was definitely there!
So, William really had no idea as to the danger in which he and Sharon were. There was no doubt that they also had Sharon, but where she was he had no idea. Suddenly the thought came to him. Morse code!
They had studied Morse code one night with Len and Melinda as a game, and only had a few hours practice with it, but, it is surprisingly easy to learn. He located an extra long link at the end of a chain mounted on the wall. With it, he began to "ping" Sharon. He experimented for a minute or so on different parts of the dungeon wall, then decided to try the iron bars embedded in the wall. They gave the sharpest tone and would carry the furthest.
He kept it simple at first: "di-dah di-dah-dit dit dah-di-dah-dah dah-dah-dah di-di-dah dah-dah-dah dah-di-dah di-di-dah-dah-di-dit " (Are you OK?) He waited. No answer. He sent the message again and waited. No Answer.
"Humm," he thought. Surely she isn't within hearing distance of my message. Or, she might be asleep . . . I'll try again later.
With that, he leaned over, mentally drained of this mornings deep awakening sessions of thought. Hopefully I can find something out when I awake.
It wouldn't be long before he sat up stiffly, and from somewhere, he could hear the faint tapping . . . "di-di-dah-dit di-dit dah-dit dit dah-di-dah-dah dah-dah-dah di-di-dah di-di-dah-dah-di-dit "
The thrill went through him like one of her smiles. Was he ever happy to hear from her! He anxiously tapped out, "great, talked to Randal Bachman . . ."
A long pause. Then, "who?"
"Long story," happy you're OK."
Thus began a tirade of messages back and forth. William and Sharon both knew they were probably being monitored. What the person doing the monitoring didn't know is they were talking in code, even though using the internationally common Morse code. By this message they were able to inform the other of some of what had happened.
Neither knew that help was coming, and that, in short order . . .
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