Mind in Chains Page 2

  Nicole turned to her mom. “Got your garden started yet?”

  I gasped. I hoped it was silent, but from the corner of my eye, I caught the motion of Jenn turning to look at me and knew it wasn’t. And now, Maggie was going to say, “Sam’s already tried to distract me with that question. What’s going on with you two anyway?” The fact that I had raised Maggie’s suspicions but hadn’t completely spilled the beans would probably mean Nicole’s displeasure with me would only last a month.

  But perhaps Maggie read the dynamics and decided to spare me. Or maybe she knew what was coming and was letting her daughter build the suspense. But whatever the case, all she said was, “I’ve got my early vegetables in. Are you planning on finding space for a garden of your own?”

  “Probably not,” Nicole replied. “It would be my luck that the tomatoes would rot on the vine … while I’m on my honeymoon.”

  Maggie dropped the last fork on the floor and hurried across the room to hug her daughter. It seemed to take Tom a moment to understand the implications of Nicole’s words—at least, that was the way I chose to interpret his hesitation because I didn’t want to consider the alternative. But after a moment, he let his paper fall, took my hand again, and said, “It’s about time.”

  What does that mean?

  But the thought disappeared as it now made little difference. Our news was public, her parents were happy, and I was relieved. Now, I could come in the front door unannounced without a concern … just like family.

  Sunday, May 5

  11:22 AM – The Evangelical Church of the Rock

  The Reverend Micah Eastin raised his arms to his sides, his black, knit shirt under the dark, blue blazer stretching tight across his chest. His gaze drifted slowly across the congregation. Sally Hoker’s boy—was it Joel—had lain down in the pew, and now the heels of his shoes were drumming against the wood. She grabbed his collar, pulled him up, and whispered something in his ear. He sat like a statue … at least for the moment.

  The Reverend’s gaze moved on. Emily Brady was holding her crying baby girl close, trying to bounce her without really moving. It wasn’t working, and Pat reached his hands toward his wife. She shook her head, moved to the end of the pew in a crouch, and left the nave. Piping his sermon into the basement nursery had been one of the best decisions he had ever made.

  His look reached another, older couple. They were new to the church. The man was stooped by years of hard labor, his wife a mere wisp of a woman. Reverend Eastin thought he recognized the overly solicitous behavior they showed each other. He’d seen it before, many times, just before one of a long-married couple was to die. He would talk to them after the service.

  It was a good crowd. In excess of 300 if Reverend Eastin was right, and he had, over the years, become quite adept in gauging the church’s draw. When he had started, he was lucky to bring in 30. His current flock was also a good cross-section of the people who lived in the surrounding towns and on the nearby farms, albeit one that was slanted toward the older generations. The draw of St. Louis, some 55 miles to the north and east, was too much to hold the kids. But that was fine with the Reverend because the older generation was more devout, more urgent in their search for eternal life. His younger followers, while fewer in number, would grow into that mold. And their ranks would swell, as their peers came to recognize the impermanence of life.

  The congregation quieted. He ran a hand through his thick, brown hair and smiled at the group. “Welcome friends and neighbors. We are truly blessed by this beautiful spring morning.” The room was filled with nodding heads, and he heard a few, quiet “amens.”

  “If you would,” Reverend Eastin continued, “look to your left.” Heads turned hesitantly; he waited for everyone to comply. “Now to the right.” The gazes swung in unison. “Aren’t those stained-glass windows beautiful? Truly, works of art.” This time, the nods were more forceful, the amens a bit louder.

  “But make no mistake, brothers and sisters, beyond their beauty, we—each and every one of us …”—he paused, letting his pointing finger sweep across the room—"we are surrounded by evil.”

  Over the years, the Reverend had spoken of many evils from his pulpit: the cavalier treatment of sex in popular culture, rampant crime, bullying in the schools. But in particular, he took pride in identifying social ills before they became national headlines, and today, he had just such a revelation for them. True, it was an extension of a malady he had spoken of before—several times. But in its growth, there was greater malevolence, and with that came the capacity to incite his flock to more ardent stewardship.

  “A few years ago, I stood before you and told you of the coming opioid crisis.” Heads nodded. “Reverend Eastin, you ask—how bad has it become since your early predictions? It’s bad. Bad enough that we can expect nearly a thousand deaths across our great state this year alone. And why? Because the men of medicine who peddled this drug put greed before truth. They told us opioids weren’t addictive. I hope they repented their evil ways. I hope they did because otherwise, a special place has been reserved for them in Hell!” It was the first time Reverend Eastin had raised his voice, and the calls of amen matched his volume.

  “Is change in this epidemic before us, you may ask? I say, it is not. Nothing will change because despite all the evidence—the addiction, the betrayals, the deaths—the men of medicine will not allow it. They continue to foist their false beliefs upon us. In fact, if the group assembled in this house of worship represents the norm for our state, we will be told over 215 times in the coming year, ‘here, take this drug, it’ll fix everything.’ And under their breath, the men of medicine will whisper, ‘and it will make you its slave.’ Two hundred and fifteen times! That’s the number of prescriptions for opioids the 300 of us could expect if we represent the state’s norm. Thankfully, we’re not average.”

  Although seventy prescriptions per one hundred didn’t necessarily mean that over two hundred in his flock were users—some individuals would receive several scripts, while many would get none—Reverend Eastin still recognized the number as a good wake-up call. And with it, he expected accusatory glances to sweep the room. They all knew each other’s business, as well as their aches and pains. He even considered asking the congregation to keep their eyes on him during this part of the sermon. But in the end, he decided it better to let the emotional indictments fall where they may.

  “Brothers and sisters, don’t misunderstand my message. The bible speaks of physicians, but it also speaks of the role of faith in the healing process. ‘And the prayer of faith will save the one who is sick, and the Lord will raise him up,’ says the Book of James, Chapter 5, verse 15. Seek His guidance through prayer as part of a healing regimen. Not as an afterthought, but as a guiding light. It only makes sense, doesn’t it?”

  Reverend Eastin paused, letting the reasonableness of his words take root. When the self-assured glances and shared nods-of-the-head ended, he continued.

  “While the opioid epidemic is a plague on humanity, it is only a small part of the evil that we are about to witness.” His volume had dropped, and he could see his congregation lean forward in the pews. “Because I tell you on this fifth day of May that we are about to witness a new movement in medicine. A movement that proclaims that faith is irrelevant because all things are possible through drugs and the surgeon’s knife. It’s no longer just opioids to mask your senses; it’s a medical, get-out-of-jail-free card for every human transgression. If these men of medicine prevail, you’ll be able to buy, here or abroad, from a sterile hospital or a backstreet alley, any medicine, any treatment you need to prop up your failing body. And all the while, this façade that is your physical manifestation will be hiding a soul that is rotting from within, from a mix of greed and lies and lust.”

  It was time to make these abstract concepts real. The Reverend pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and held it up for the crowd to see. “It’s a ten-dollar-off coupon from the biggest, retail pharmacy chain in the
United States. And what’s it for? An emergency contraceptive. Take it within three days and the Sixth Commandment is obsolete. You don’t even need a doctor’s prescription; just ask at the counter. This is exactly what this movement seeks—sanctioned, commercial immorality based on medicine.”

  Even though this was information any of them could find in their evening paper, every head in the congregation was shaking. Reverend Eastin never doubted the power of denial.

  “And if the pill doesn’t work, there’s always the abortionist’s knife. True, we—you and I—we have fought the good fight against abortion in this state. We’ve stood shoulder-to-shoulder in protest until we were ready to drop. We’ve written letters to our representatives in government until our hands cramped. Unfortunately, much of what we’ve accomplished is to force our young women across state lines. Last year, nearly half of the 7,000 abortions performed in the state of Kansas involved women with Missouri addresses. How many more unborn were killed in Illinois? We don’t know; that state doesn’t even bother to count. But I say to you, we are a beacon of hope to our neighbors. Don’t let this medicine-is-all movement dim our light.”

  Reverend Eastin paused, letting the murmured words of determination fade. “Lest you believe this evil lives only in the big cities back east or the sprawling metropolises out west, let me correct that misperception. One of the chief proponents of this movement has called St. Louis home for the last six years—Dr. James Conroy, Jr. He tells a heartbreaking story of the death of a sister after a botched abortion. Truly, a sad tale and he uses it to justify killing the unborn. But never once does Dr. Conroy mention the sanctity of the two lives that were lost that night. He is blind. He has made a pact with the devil. I ask you to pray for him because his days on earth are numbered!” The Reverend shouted, the congregation leaning forward to embrace his indignation, not avoid it.

  “I will,” said Layton Tyler from his regular spot in the third row. Reverend Eastin smiled and nodded at the man. He could always count on Tyler, and a dozen more like him, to take up his causes.

  “You may be asking yourself, but what can we do, Brother Eastin? I say to you, your voices shall be heard. Even though the battle for minds and souls will be waged in the cities and towns across the nation, the war will be won in Washington, DC. There, we have a voice in Dr. Jerry Tibbs. But unfortunately, Brother Tibbs lacks the means to extend our fight against opioids to the broader hypocrisy of the medical community. His odds will be worse than David facing Goliath with his sling empty of stones. We must arm him. So, brothers and sisters, we will need that additional five dollars, or ten, or a hundred, if we are to turn back the forces of Satan. I ask you to dig deep, find it in your hearts and your souls and your pockets to assure our victory.”

  Volunteers began passing through the room, collecting the congregation’s offering envelopes. And along with those regular donations in their yellow sleeves, bills started appearing from purses and billfolds. Reverend Eastin nodded at the assembled group, now believing this clash with medicine could be the rallying cry he had hoped.

  Monday, May 6

  1:22 AM – The Campus of St. Louis University

  A shadow slid across the lawn, the ghost of a cloud floating on the breeze backlit by a half-moon in the night sky. In its wake, Sister Constance could just make out clumps of tulips, more of their petals now adorning the ground than their stems. Beyond them, a row of peonies was taking up the task of bringing color to the university campus, their sweet, spicy smell mixing with the odor of damp earth, mowed grass, and car exhaust. A dog barked in the distance. A large vehicle, probably a truck, rumbled down Highway 40, three blocks to the south. Closer, Constance heard footfalls, probably male by the gait. She couldn’t see him but he smoked; the smell of a cigarette drifted to her nose.

  Sister Constance had been in hiding since 10:30, her senses now finely tuned to the faintest sound, the subtlest movement, the slightest smell. So, when the band she wore on her wrist vibrated, she flinched, even though she had been waiting for its signal since arriving. At last, it was time.

  She got up and moved slowly toward a building about 20 yards to the east, her black-clad figure ready to melt into the shadows at the slightest provocation. But finding no need to hide, she reached the structure in moments. She moved silently along its edge, keeping in the shadow produced by the moonlight and the dim rays of a floodlight mounted on the roof. Her hand trailed along the wall, feeling the cool, rough texture on her fingertips. The building was four stories, made of brick outlined with white stone. Ahead, there was a structure of similar style but only two floors. A one-story passageway connected them. She stepped into the U-shaped recess formed by the two buildings and their connector. She looked outward. Straight ahead, there was an open area with grass and a large tree, its long, slender branches drooping toward the ground. She knew the scene well. Everything was right, exactly where it should be.

  Constance turned and faced the shorter of the two buildings. She tugged on the straps of the small backpack she wore, rocked back, and then raced forward. Just before reaching the wall, she leaped, planting her right foot at nearly the height of her five-foot, ten-inch frame. Momentum carried her forward, her right leg and both arms coiling against the structure. Then, in a single, fluid motion she spun and leaped back toward the wall behind her. This time, the increase in altitude was only about two feet but still upward. She spun again, gaining even less, but with that final leap, she should reach the top of the passageway.

  But as luck would have it, her last foothold was just above the joint between two bricks and her foot slipped. The fraction of an inch she lost sealed her fate, and she fell back to the ground. Looking up, her body started to tremble with a rage directed inward. She slapped her face with her right hand, the viciousness of the blow bringing tears to her eyes. She pounded her fists against her legs as if punishing them for letting her down.

  After a moment, her self-control returned. She retraced her steps to the starting point and tried again. This time, she succeeded, with almost the full length of her fingers gaining purchase on the top edge of the passageway wall. Pulling herself up over the edge, she dropped down to the surface of the roof and rolled to her back. It was warm, the heat stored there from the daytime sun. It seeped through her clothes, letting her muscles relax. After a few moments, her heart rate had returned to normal. She cautiously peered over the edge, checking for the signs that would dictate her next actions. No one was in view. The world was silent; even the locusts and crickets seemed to have called it a night. It was the best of all the possible situations she had practiced.

  Constance crawled across the roof to a window located on the four-story building. After cleaning part of the glass with a hand, she pulled a suction cup from her backpack and attached it to the window. A heave upward failed to move it. She tried again with the same result. The window was locked. She removed the suction cup and turned it backward, placing the metal, pump handle against the glass. Then, she drove her hand into the rubber cup. The glass cracked but didn’t break. With a second blow, the pane shattered and dropped to the floor inside the building.

  Constance dived to the surface of the passageway roof, quickly securing the suction cup in her backpack. She listened. Nothing. The world still slept. After a moment, she peered over the edge of the roof. Still, no one. A check through the shattered window yielded the same information; all was clear. After removing a few shards from the window frame and laying them quietly on the roof, she pulled herself through.

  Constance knew three ways to get to her goal and four ways out. With no one in sight, she took the quickest, easiest route and was soon standing outside a door with familiar numbers—332. To its left, there was a small table. A tray with some papers rested on its top, an empty shelf below. To the right sat two chairs. Everything was there, just as it should be.

  She laid her backpack on the floor and carefully removed a small package wrapped in brown paper. Her fingers probed its back, finding a s
oft spot in the otherwise solid surface. Pulling the box to her ear, she pushed, careful not to tear the paper. The expected soft click reached her ear. She placed the box on the open shelf. Now, she only needed to exit the building and go home to her reward. It was what she lived for.

  5:22 AM – The Campus of St. Louis University

  The night sky was starting to brighten, although sunrise was still more than a half-hour away. As he climbed the stairs, Dr. John Huether could just make out the lawns and gardens outside the windows on each landing. The sidewalks that crisscrossed the campus seemed an ethereal network, dim bands of gray concrete connecting spheres of brilliance under the streetlights.

  Huether exited the stairwell and walked to his office, briefcase in one hand, a large coffee in the other. He placed his drink on the floor so he could dig through his pockets for his keys. He wasn’t a morning person; he’d need that liquid kickstart if he was going to do anything but yawn in this morning’s meeting. But the loss of a couple of hours of sleep was nothing. They were a mere trifle in what he had already sacrificed to reach this point in his career. First, his long hours of research had cost his marriage. Then, his kids had turned their backs. Now, he only saw them around Christmas when disinterested civility became the replacement for holiday cheer. Even his colleagues at the university had become aloof, the cost, he believed, of his looming victories.

  Huether glanced at the table outside his office, its tray filled with papers from anxious students. How many of those pages, he wondered, would be excuses, requests for extensions to work that was already overdue? Or past assignments “accidentally” re-submitted, giving the tardy another day or two until he brought the error to their attention. And even with their manufactured delay, most of them still wouldn’t finish. Didn’t they know, he’d seen it all before?