CAN'T FOCUS THROUGH THE TEARS by Greg Porterfield
In truth, I never thought this would ever be written.
* * *
I’m not sure how long I’ve been here because the past is a blur. Whether it is hours or days … I can’t be sure. I’m confined to some sort of padded medical table … unable to move anything except my fingers and toes. I think the room is fairly large … perhaps a basement in a building. I tried shouting but it does no good except to confirm the emptiness. It is so dark. Not a ray of light enters this world and the blackness hangs like a shroud … darker than night. The lack of sound, other than my own screams, makes it seem so hopeless.
The drift in and out of consciousness only adds to my feeling of helplessness as I struggle to make sense of my surroundings. It doesn’t matter if my eyes are open or shut. I see only the purest of black. As I fill my lungs I listen to each breath, taking comfort in that simple act. I still live.
After wetting my lips, I count my teeth with my tongue and swallow, just to feel something … anything. There are several heavy straps holding me to the table, and it is a struggle to even flex the muscles in my arms and legs, although the effort maintains circulation, it only confirms I am a captive. In the darkness, without reference points, my mind wanders to the last thing I remember clearly.
It was Wednesday. We all called it hump day and snickered adolescently to ourselves. I opened the office at nine that morning. Checked for messages on the machine and reviewed my e-mail. With nothing out of the ordinary or needing immediate attention, I made a pot of coffee and waited for the others to arrive. The rest of our five-person office soon drifted in for another day at the Five Star Travel Agency.
By ten o’clock everybody had completed their morning calls, and the click of computer keys filled the office. All of us became consumed with e-mail, checking prices, looking for travel deals, and posting entries into the accounting system—just a typical Wednesday morning. There might be one or two walk-ins later in the afternoon but for the most part, the majority of our business was handled over the phone or by e-mail.
At Five Star, I’m usually the first to arrive in the morning and the last to leave at the end of the day. I have a dozen or so serious clients, a few that like to travel as a group, and a company or two that keep me busy arranging flights and cruises for their top executives. I also handle a couple of government accounts since my wife is employed by the State Department. I work hard to keep that bit of business. A little of their off the books travel budget trickled down to me because I have proven to be very discreet.
The sunset had all but drained the color from the sky, and I was in the process of turning off the lights to head home. My wife and I had argued the previous evening, and we hardly said a word to one another that morning. I wanted to apologize with a late dinner out to help smooth things over. I even ordered flowers. Cheesy, but it usually helped ease my guilt. October nights are cold in D.C. and I had my jacket under my arm as I walked, keys in hand, to lock up. Just then, a well-dressed man opened the door. I walked to the front counter to tell him we were closed, but there was something in his demeanor that suggested he was used to special attention even after hours.
Walking sticks are out of fashion, but the one he carried spoke of importance. The pure black shaft had a brass eagle’s head surrounded by a ring of brass stars inlayed in the dark knob at the top, and at the bottom of the stick, a gleaming brass tip. The distinctive accessory would have impressed anyone. Wearing black lambskin gloves, he held the walking stick loosely in his right hand. A dark three-quarter length overcoat covered a finely tailored three-piece suit—probably Italian. A burgundy tie with narrow threads of dark gold, knotted in a full Windsor appeared like a jewel against his crisp white shirt. His silver hair framed a narrow hard face, unlined by time, with high cheeks, a thin aristocratic nose, and close-set clear gray eyes below heavy silver eyebrows. A thin, perfectly trimmed gray mustache barely moved when he spoke, and the accent sounded Eastern European. A gentleman from another era.
To introduce himself, he produced a stiff white linen business card from a vest pocket and handed it to me with his left hand. I remember almost nothing of our conversation … a request concerning a last minute one-way to Argentina. He needed to arrive in Buenos Aires no later than Sunday. Some kind of emergency meeting, there would be two additional passengers. Cost was not a factor.
I made a call to a pilot friend of mine, Terry Meade, to see if he was available. His Lear 35 was free, and I made all the arrangements for the trip while my mystery client, a Mr. Ernst Johannsen, sat quietly listening. Funds for the charter were transferred from an off-shore account. The company was called Transax Global. After providing Mr. Johannsen the time of his flight and directions to the airstrip, he quietly extended his gloved hand to conclude our business.
Those after-hours travel plans for Ernst Johannsen were my last memory. Everything now is confusing, and it seems unreal to find myself strapped to a table in this pitch-black room. I keep replaying the memory of those last few moments at the office. Beyond that, time has no meaning to me. People talk about time speeding up or slowing down during traumatic experiences, but, lying here in the dark, listening, struggling to move or even see what surrounds me—the concept of time makes no sense. I begin to doubt a world outside of the darkness. Has my entire life been a dream? Or, is this only the dream of some other dreamer? I am awake, but my thoughts seem jumbled as I drift in and out of consciousness. My ragged breathing and the rapid thump of my heart beating is my only timepiece. How long has it been? Is anyone looking for me?
Somewhere in my mind the vision of a woman’s face, my wife, appears, and I call out in vain. She seems hurt and I know she has been crying. But that specter soon vanishes in the dark. I begin listening for a sound … any external sound … but there is nothing. In desperation I began counting aloud. After reaching one hundred I stop in frustration. To distract my mind, I begin calling out phone numbers, zip codes, addresses, street names. Mine is the only voice in the darkness. Unexpectedly I begin to wail aloud. Slow random sounds: a deep shuddering gurgle ushers from my throat and tears stream down my face. In the darkness I pray for release from the horror that surrounds me.
As I sob quietly, my face wet with tears, there is a sound. It begins slowly—a scraping of metal on metal. Then silence. A second, identical sound comes from somewhere beyond my feet, then a scream of metal and rays of light pierce the darkness. I now hear voices and see blinding beams of light sweeping every corner of my dark prison.
“FBI … we’re coming in!”
“I’ve got him!”
“Thank God, we found him.”
“Bring a stretcher!”
“We’ve got you, Mr. Bennington. We’ve got you.”
