Dos(e) part 1

Saturday, September 9^th, 22:43hrs

Hunter fought them. 

Six men in shirtsleeves struggled to hold him down on the floor of a freight trailer. One of the men carried a clipboard and a flashlight. He shouted orders to the others. Hunter fought them when they stripped him. Keys jingled. Sweat poured. Men grunted. They lifted and dragged him to a plastic tank of water the size of a coffin. It was bolted down. It had a lid with a lock.

The man with the clipboard mentioned bruises and time of death. Hunter kicked and twisted. The men forced him into the water coffin on his back, submerging him. Hunter stretched his neck out. His lips broke the surface of the water. Hunter took the deepest breath of his life. A hand shoved his face back underwater. The other men slammed the lid closed and locked it.

Hunter watched them roll their sleeves back down, staring down at him, watching and waiting for him to die. If only he were Harry Houdini and this were a magic trick. If there were a hidden key or some secret means to escape but Hunter was no Houdini. Why had he even bothered to hold his breath at all, he thought for a moment. 

Hunter gave in. He let go. He let his heart slow and allowed himself to drift.

“Time of death is 11:46 pm,” said the man with the clipboard. He wrote something down. “Let’s get started, gentlemen.”

****

Thursday, September 7^th, 05:30hrs. Santa Cruz, California…

Hunter held his breath. 

He swam the length of the rooftop swimming pool underwater. He smiled. Hunter reached out for the wall and surfaced on the other side. He climbed out of the pool. A woman in a nurse’s uniform waited for him with a towel. Dawn broke over the Santa Cruz Mountains behind her. The air smelled of salt.  

“Hunter, I don’t think I should go in today,” said Mariposa, “I’m worried.”

“Everything’s fine,” said Hunter. He smiled. “We still have time.” They stopped in front of an elevator. Mariposa shook her head. Hunter nodded. They took the stairs down to Hunter’s flat on the eighth floor of the Palomar Building. Outside his living room window, stone conquistadores stared over downtown and the Pacific Ocean. Mariposa looked down. The black Chevy Tahoe was still there, parked across the street. She looked at her watch. Hunter walked to the dressing room and opened a closet. Eight sets of the same model shirts and pants hung in perfect order at two inch intervals.

“Why we are together, Hunter?” said Mariposa. Hunter dressed in front of a mirror. He watched Mariposa’s reflection. He put on a white short-sleeved shirt, a thin black tie, black trousers, and psychedelic socks. 

“I feel like a facilitator,” said Mariposa, “a lonely, used-up facilitator.” 

“No,” said Hunter.

“Don’t tell me how to feel, you asshole.”

“I’m not.” Hunter washed his hands in the sink then checked under his nails for dirt. There wasn’t any. “I just want to get through this and get the hell out of here. That’s all.”

“I?” said Mariposa.

“We,” said Hunter, “I want us to get through this so we can get out of here.”

“So you squeeze me like an orange and then you want to throw me away,” said Mariposa, “You can admit it now, Hunter, it’s okay…”

Hunter walked to the kitchen.

“I said you can admit it now!” said Mariposa. She followed him. She glanced at the knife sitting on the granite counter-top. Hunter stopped. He grabbed Mariposa by the arms and looked into her eyes.

“I’m with you because I love you,” said Hunter. He tried to kiss her.

“Not because I can get you closer to what you want?” said Mariposa. Hunter let her go.

He put on a black jacket and sunglasses. He took 12 boxes of Altoid’s Mints from the kitchen counter and put them inside a leather briefcase.

“I want to go to the Big Island with you,” said Hunter. He draped a laboratory coat over his forearm.

“That’s not an answer,” said Mariposa.

“Forty-eight hours from now it will be.”

“And what if I don’t go?”

“I don’t want to leave without you, Mariposa.”

“And what if I don’t go to the hospital today?” said Mariposa.

Hunter glanced at the knife on the granite counter-top.

Mariposa smiled.

****

Thursday, September 7^th, 05:33hrs. Santa Cruz, California…

The Big Dipper rollercoaster and the log ride sat silent on the beach from the view at the Fireside Inn. A diamond shaped neon sign out front said ocean views. Darryl smoked cigarettes in the corner room, above a decaying pool and parking lot. He was unshaven. A pencil rested behind his ear. Darryl stared at the wall in front of him. Index cards, threads, and pushpins covered most of the surface area.

U.S. Government

Pharmaceutical Mind Control

Project MK-Ultra

CIA

Stanford Research Clinic, Menlo Park.

Creative writing fellow

Perry Lane

Ken Kesey

Jack Underwood

Agnews Mental Hospital, 

said some of the index cards. They were written in various colors of Sharpie ink.

Darryl pressed the red button on a voice recorder.

“Jack Underwood was a creative writing fellow at Stanford University in 1965,” said Darryl. He lit another cigarette. “He lived on Perry Lane with his wife, Vera. Ken Kesey lived there at the same time. He was working on One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest.”

Motorcycle engines roared outside.

Darryl ran to the windows. A dozen men on motorcycles drove into the parking lot. 

“Oh no,” said Darryl. He snatched index cards from the wall. He grabbed a double armful of papers, file folders, and binders from the table and the bed. Men were on the staircase now, outside his door. He reached out to lock it. The door opened. Leather-clad men forced their way into the room. The last one to enter wore a shaved head and a goatee. The words Dirty White Boy were tattooed on the inside of his forearms. He shut the door behind himself.

“Cock-a-doodle-doo,” said the man.

“Ghost,” said Darryl, “aren’t you guys are up at the crack of-”

“-ass?” said Ghost, “Oh yeah, Darryl, me and the boys are always up at the crack of ass.”

Papers spilled from Darryl’s arms. Smoke rose from an ashtray on the bed. 

“Two more days till the Burning Man, sweetheart,” said Ghost, “you must have an address for me by now.”

Darryl swallowed. “That’s what I’ve been working on, Ghost, I’ve been up all night…” 

Ghost placed an arm around Darryl’s shoulder. He steered him towards the bathroom. The men followed. Leather crackled.

“Darryl, let me ask you something and be honest with me,” said Ghost.

“Sure,” said Darryl.

“Have you ever been to prison?” said Ghost.

“No,” said Darryl. His hands trembled. Ghost took a cigarette from the ashtray on the bed. 

 “See, if you had, Darryl, you’d have a certain look about you,” said Ghost. He puffed the cigarette back to life. The cherry glowed.

“A look I don’t have,” said Darryl.

Ghost stood an inch away from him. “A look on your face that says, I could watch another man get fucked today and give two shits less,” said Ghost. His breath smelled of chewing gum and cigarettes.  

The men formed a semicircle. They were corn-fed, tattooed, and looked ready for anything on the menu.

“Look, Ghost,” said Darryl, “I’ll have an opportunity to see the lab today, I’m sure of it.”

“I want a location. I want an address,” said Ghost. He caressed Darryl’s face.

“I’ll get it,” said Darryl, “I will, I just need some breathing room, man.”

Ghost smiled. “How about we open things up a bit for you then?”

“Whoa, easy, guys. Come on,” said Darryl.

“Turn around and put your hands on the wall,” said Ghost. He opened a buck knife.

“Ghost, come on man, I swear to god!”