A Better Place: The Search for Robert

By Kate Raffordy

A deadly disease has all but eliminated the world's male population and at age twelve boys are taken from their homes, never to return.
Robert Cain was one of those boys. Held captive in one facility or another for over thirty years, he learned to use his wits and his sexuality to survive. When the opportunity presented itself, he escaped and was determined not to lose his freedom, again.
Beth and Cora never gave up hope that their brother might have survived the terrible disease that they knew first hand did not affect all men. Now Beth had evidence that there was a chance their brother was still alive. Nothing will stand in the way of their search for him.
Francis was saved from this fate by his mother, who raised him as a girl and by his nanny, Sabrina, who comforted the boy confused by his unique circumstances. Now at twenty-two he was searching for Sabrina, who he discovered, wrote a book which proved to him that she would sacrifice anything for him.
In a story of determination, vengeance and consequence, three worlds were destined to collide.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kate Raffordy
• Release date: Jun 9, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458104540

Kate Raffordy

Originally from Jacksonville, Florida, Kate has lived in 5 states and Japan. She has been writing practically since she was able to pick up a pencil and string a few words together. English was always her favorite subject in school. She graduated from Wolfson Senior High School in Jacksonville, Florida in 1967. About a year later she joined the Air Force where while in tech school for Air Traffic Control, she met her first husband and the father of her two children. She attended The University of Maryland, Far East Division, while stationed with her husband in Japan and she has also attended Wright Junior College and Lake County Junior College, both located in Illinois. A Better Place, was started and completed in 1992. The cover for this book, is her first painting done when she was 15 and at that time was signing her work as Rane'. She lives about 40 miles north of Chicago and has lived in Illinois since 1983. The cover for the sequel, The Search for Robert, is a charcoal sketch she did of the Evanston Lighthouse. She enjoys gardening and spoiling her granddaughter Katie. Paperback versions located at: https://www.createspace.com/3555275 https://www.createspace.com/3597841

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

The thundering noise of the train as it raced along the metal tracks matched the intensity of Francis Cain's thoughts as he watched the blurred landscape of Atlanta's tall, green pines slowly give way to the blurred vista of St. Louis's cold, steel-blue factories.

For five years, ever since he had been made to leave the ranch in Pennsylvania, he had been aimlessly roaming the southern portion of the states, trying to find shelter, a place to hide from a government that out of fear of exposure to a deadly disease imprisoned its men regardless of whether they were infected or not. Ironically, the ranch had been the only safe refuge he had known.

Well hidden behind a forest of trees that stretched along an open highway, it was the place where his Aunt Beth had harbored others like him who had been forced since birth to masquerade as girls. Boys who for eleven years before coming to the ranch had been punished and threatened if they displayed their natural tendencies of boyish behavior, who after adjusting to this modification, had been suddenly given emotional freedom by way of a crash-course in what it meant to be a man. Boys who were expected to be grateful and obedient to their deliverers.

The absurdity of their intention still angered him. The audacity of their wrath when their plan backfired still eluded him. And now, because of their failed plan, he was forced to eat the scraps of strangers’ garbage, forced to sleep in abandoned buildings or beneath the tangled foliage of wooded acres, and travel endlessly in search of some sort of asylum from apprehension.

Never once in the time since he was forced to leave the ranch had he ever considered his actions to be anything but the inevitable consequence of the intrinsic nature of his environment. From the beginning of time, the need for freedom had created havoc with those who tried to oppress and control. Even his encounter with Rachel, which set off the chain of events that ended in that final and violent rebellion, was something he saw as being an inescapable act of fate.

He knew who had been responsible for blaming him. It was the one person who had always been quick to blame him whenever he acted in a manner considered normal male behavior: His mother.

For all her soothing words when he was a child, they were always accompanied by the threat of being taken away, and of course it was his behavior that would have been at fault. Never once could he remember his mother taking the blame for his predicament.

But his governess Sabrina had not hesitated to tell him at a very early age that his mother and aunt were responsible for his having to pretend to be a girl, that she only scolded him because it was what his mother expected of her, and she would lose her job if she did not do as his mother insisted.

But Sabrina had also been the one who was always there for him. She was the one who dried his tears when he became frightened and confused. And although he had sometimes thought her mean, he could see now that it was only because she loved him and the fact that she didn't want his mother to send her away that she had been so strict. Sabrina had only been following his mother's orders.

Now as he hid in the empty boxcar of the train that would take him home, it was Sabrina he hoped to find when he returned to Illinois. There was no one else that he could turn to now. Sabrina was his last hope. He wasn't sure what his chances were of finding her, but he had to try.

The last time he had seen her was the day he and his mother left for the ranch. He was just a child then, a confused boy of eleven, and when he asked his mother why Sabrina wasn't going with them, she had told him only that Sabrina had something important that she must do but that her leaving made it possible for them to go to the ranch.

Although Francis said nothing to contradict his mother, he felt certain that she and not some mysterious task was responsible for Sabrina's absence.

Hours later, the train slowed and the noise from its rhythmic progress along the tracks dimmed. Turning from the small opening he'd left in the car's sliding doorway, he reached behind one of the wooden crates that shared his passage and pulled his backpack from the floor where he had concealed himself within the shadows during the train's scheduled stops.

Slinging the pack's strap over one shoulder, he leaned hard against the heavy door, pushing it open only far enough to allow his escape. He looked out and for a moment saw the familiar sight of Chicago's magnificent skyline silhouetted against the evening sky before it disappeared from view as he leaped from the train and rolled down the grassy slope that bordered the tracks.

He came to rest beside a chain link fence that was topped with several lines of barbed wire and stretched far beyond his vision on either side of him. Stunned and confused, he pushed himself up from the ground and as he brushed the dirt from his clothes, he vaguely remembered Sabrina telling him long ago that the fences had been erected to prevent children from playing too near the tracks, that for years before their existence many children had died because they underestimated the powerful pull from the rush of a passing train.

The chain links of the fence were too small for toe-holds and was topped with barbed wire strung so closely together that spreading the lines apart was not even an option. He would have to find some other way to gain access to the other side.

He removed the coated band that held his long, dark brown hair back from his face and out of his way. Leaning forward, he shook his head, brushing his hands vigorously against his hair to remove any dirt and debris. Hanging over his face, he saw that his hair appeared almost black in the moonlight. Its brilliant auburn highlights once made so visible and vibrant by the sun were now as concealed as he by the dreary secrecy of the night.

With a short snap of his head, he flipped his hair so that it fell heavily against his back, then pulled it into a thick luxurious tail at the nape of his neck and once again secured it with the band. He reached down for his backpack and noticed a tear in his nylons along with a run that ran up to the top of his thigh in a series of parallel lines an inch and a half wide.

Damn, he said as he lifted the edge of his skirt and inspected the damage. I really hate wearing these things. They just never last.

What he really hated was the need to dress like this in the first place. It had been difficult for him to revert back to the lifestyle he had given up when he went to the ranch. Not only was it emotionally painful, but physically he was more masculine in appearance than he was at age eleven, so disguising his gender was more difficult.

He had been almost seventeen then and after five years of physical labor, he was quite muscular in build. Luckily, he was also tall and his weight was in muscle not fat. He found that by wearing a blazerminus any shoulder padswith a loose-fitting dress or a billowy skirt with a long blouse hung out over top, he could pretty much pass, as long as he traveled by night and stayed out of any bright lights. The hardest part had been acquiring the items necessary for his disguise.

In the beginning he had to stay out of sight entirely. Without a disguise, even the night could not conceal his masculinity. He had to slink between the cloak of shadows, while he searched through back yard clothes lines and unattended houses for items that would suit his purpose, as well as fit. Learning how to apply makeup was another challenge he had been forced to master, although after a few failed first attempts he found the task easier than he had anticipated. He discovered that a good foundation to cover any five-o'clock shadow, a little definition to his now plucked eye brows, a small amount of blush, and bit of tint to his full mouth was all that he really needed for the transformation. Anything more than that made him look too theatrical and phony.

Dropping the skirt back to where it covered his thick, bony knees, he slipped his arms through the straps of his backpack and began his journey along the fence in the direction of the city that lay just south of his hometown of Evanston.

When Francis was a boy, Sabrina told him many stories about Chicago and how she had lived precariously from day to day on its frantic and contemptuous streets. But she also conveyed to him that because the streets could be so unwelcoming, there was a sense of community that developed among those who had proven themselves as survivors, that the victims were those who allowed themselves to be vulnerable to the situation.

Francis was certain that if Sabrina was to be found, she would be found somewhere on the streets of Chicago and not in the safe neighborhood of his home in Evanston.

He had been walking for several hours, using the fence as his guide through the dark, indistinguishable terrain. In his hand was a leafy branch he had ripped from a copious shrub that had overgrown its chain-link boundary. He let it brush softly against the fence as he walked, hoping to detect a break in its esoteric cadence, which would indicate a place of exit and allow him the release he sought from this unexpected confinement.

As his journey brought him closer and closer to the city and the landscape beyond the fence began to change from overgrown brush to manicured lawns, he tried not to let his predicament get him discouraged. He was certain that somewhere along that fence there had to be a place where someone had gained entry.

He looked up at the starless night and wondered how much time he had before daylight. Should the sun rise before he found a way to escape, there was no place on this side of the fence to conceal himself and in the light of day there was no chance that he could pass as being a woman. He would be discovered and turned in to the authorities and God only knows what would happen to him then. No one knew what happened to those unlucky enough to be caught, only that they were never seen or heard from again.

He looked to his left and saw that the three and four level wood and stone structures that he determined to be apartments were giving way to a long line of single story brick buildings surrounded by immense, well lighted parking areas that stretched from the rear of the buildings to the edge of the fence.

Although he was still a hundred or more yards away, he spotted several of the new solar cars that less than three years earlier had been made available to the general public. However, they were quite expensive. Gasoline or electric cars, while more affordable, were still only available to those in public service professions. Many companies, especially those dealing in manufacturing, purchased solar cars for their staff. They leased them at reasonable rates to new workers as an incentive when hiring.

Francis was surprised at the number of cars in the lot. They were parked in a tight single file near their rear entrances like soldiers defending the front line. Instantly his spirits picked up. He was approaching a row of factories and where there were factories next to a freight rail, there was a good chance that there would be some type of gate for loading and unloading shipments.

Although he wanted to run, he deliberately slowed his pace. He had to be careful. If anyone came out of those buildings unexpectedly, the bright lights that illuminated the parking area would just as easily reveal his presence and he would be apprehended immediately.

Then he saw it, the first of a string of double gates that led to each of the bordering lots. Again he wanted to run, but instead he dropped to his knees and crawled to the first set of gates.

Huddled at its edge, he peered upwards. He was disappointed but not surprised to see that its top was strung with the same tight rows of barbed wire that served the fence. He looked next at the space at the top where the hinge separated the gate from the fence. His eyes narrowed as he tried to calculate the distance, but there seemed to be only a maximum of four or five inches between the two: not enough room for him to maneuver through without serious injury.

He turned his attention to the lower edge of the gate. Here he had hoped to find that the earth beneath had been trampled down enough that he might squeeze through. But the ground was hard and flat and was a direct line that lay even with the asphalt lot adjacent to it.

He moved on slowly to the next gate some twenty to thirty yards farther down, checking to his left periodically for any signs of life emerging from any of the factory doors or around the cars parked within the lots.

Again he checked for possible access to the other side, but with no luck. Undaunted he continued to the next gate. He was only a few feet away, when suddenly he heard voices, the sound of lilting laughter mingled with unintelligible conversation coming from one of the cars parked at the far end of the lot, several spaces away from the others.

Instantly, he spread himself out flat against the ground, his arms stretched straight ahead, his head facing left so that he could immediately detect any danger of his being seen. He watched in silence, his heart nervously pounding the earth beneath him, as two women emerged from the car, slamming the doors hard behind them. Bang! Bang! It was like two gun shots in the otherwise still and quiet night.

Again laughter rang out, as one of the girls stumbled into the arms of the other, causing both to teeter unsteadily. Even from where Francis lay some fifty yards away, he could hear the unmistakable sound of them shushing each other and snickering as they tried to regain their balance. Once steady, they then weaved their way precariously in the direction of the plant's rear door, their arms wrapped securely around each other's waist, their steps tediously attempted but not quite taken in unison, as though they thought they had a much better chance of making it if they traveled as one.

Although he continued to lay flat and still, Francis could not help but breathe a sigh of relief when the door finally slammed shut behind them. He waited several minutes, his head still facing left to insure that the two were not going to return either by choice or by force, before slowing turning his attention from the door to the area in front of him.

He was still stretched out flat and he could see the ground beneath the gate from where he lay. At first he thought he was seeing things. Propping himself up on his elbows, he rubbed the backs of his fists against his eyes before looking again at the miracle that suddenly presented itself. There, not more than a yard in front of him was not only a gate, but if he was not mistaken it was opened.

Again he rubbed his eyes. Then looking once more to his left and seeing that the lot was still deserted, he leaped immediately to his feet and ran, half stumbling, into the freedom that the opened gate allowed.

In that instant, he did not even care if anyone emerged from the building. He sprinted across the parking area to the safety of the shadows beyond the lighted lot. Leaning against the factory's brick exterior to regain his breath, he looked up to the heavens and thanked whoever it was that had provided his unexpected escape. Then he slipped out into the streets in search of a safe place to catch a couple of hours sleep before morning, when he would once more have to be on guard against the possibility of someone discovering whatever interim sanctuary he had found.

CHAPTER 2

He could feel the sun's rays warming his face and automatically threw his arm over his eyes to block the intrusive glare that had interrupted his sleep. He tried to imagine he was on one of the Florida beaches where he had spent many nights that first summer after leaving the ranch, hoping the illusion would allow him to drift back to sleep, but it was too late. The east window of the abandoned deli had served its purpose and he was awake.

Instinctively he looked at his wrist. A futile effort that continued to be a morning reflex, even though he had long ago sold his watch when he had been desperate for food and unable to find one decent edible scrap in the restaurant garbage cans that had been emptied before his arrival.

For three nights, as he traveled on foot through the small provincial towns connected like dot to dots along Florida's eastern coastline, it seemed as though he were following just behind the route of God knows how many sanitation trucks. Every time he thought a can would prove fruitful, his mouth watering in anticipation, he found it bare of anything but the greasy, chunky residue that clung to its putrid walls. By the forth night, he was forced to approach a stranger and offer his watch for far less than its worth.

He took extra pains applying his makeup that night and even then he added the extra touch of wrapping his long hair in a few well positioned rollers and covering his head with a colorful scarf. With his head held low and his posture bent and haggard, he drew upon the best of his courage and stepped up cautiously to a lone young woman just before she passed the alley where he had been waiting.

Presenting himself as one of those lonely elderly women who had refused to take charge of their lives when their husbands died but who none the less continued to be supported by their deceased spouses by selling whatever personal treasures they had left behind, he begged her in a high-pitched croaking voice to please purchase the watch he tearfully claimed to be all that was left of his now departed and dearly loved husband.

He had hoped that his sorrowful plea would not only bring him money for food but would also result in enough sympathy to allow him to retain the watch as well. Unfortunately, this was not the case.

The woman looked at the watch, barely giving notice to him, then dispassionately offered him five dollars. He immediately bargained for ten. Knowing full well the inequity of the exchange, she eagerly dropped the watch into her purse and extracted two neatly folded five dollar bills which she handed him before she hastily skirted passed him and continued on her way with not a single glance back in his direction.

He had been disappointed and a little disgusted that his ploy had not worked to his advantage, but at least now he could eat. And at the moment he needed food far more than he needed a watch. However, actually purchasing a burger at a non-franchised fast food joint proved more challenging than he had imagined.

That had happened long enough ago that the instinct to look to his wrist for the time should have by now ended, but for some reason it was a habit that he found impossible to break. Probably because it had been the last gift he had received from Sabrina before she went away.

Shaking his head at the stubbornness of his unconscious mind, he got up from the floor and moving from behind the counter, walked the short distance to the front of the building where he stood with his back flattened against the wall while he peeked out the window. He was relieved to see that the area was as desolate and deserted in the daylight as it had appeared to him the night before.

For two nights, as he traveled north from 115th Street, weaving in and out along his path of following Martin Luther King Jr. Drive, to 47th Street, he had tried to stay within the areas that had little to no activity. It had not always been an easy task, but he had come too far and was too close to chance the truth of his identity now.

At 47th, he had turned east, toward the lake and had located an expanse of four or five blocks that contained boarded up buildings of varying degrees of dilapidation. Their faded exteriors and weedy, overgrown lawns gave evidence to many years of neglect. But this alone did not prove to Francis that the place was uninhabited.

He had seen many run-down neighborhoods in his travels. Places that he never would have thought of as being a suitable place for people to live. Having grown up in a comfortable apartment in Evanston and then living his teen years on the lush and plentiful acres of the ranch, he had been unprepared for what he saw. He was at first appalled, then resigned that there were many such places.

On the surface, there was little difference between this area and the others he had seen. What made this battered neighborhood different, what gave it its ghostly appearance was not its deterioration. It was that it was totally barren of any indication of human existence.

No where hidden beneath the tall blades of grass or tangled within the spindly weed stems did he see some sign that testified to the presence of life. Not one piece of litter, nor one small toy could be found. Not one solitary footstep crushed a single spot of the thick growth that covered lot after lot.

It was this evidence to a lack of activity that made him certain, even beneath the cloak of darkness, that these bent and broken frames held no human life within their cold and empty walls. That he would be safe here. Even the rodents had probably long ago abandoned the place.

And so he had examined each building for its optimum advantage and decided at last on the deli as the best place for him to rest before continuing his journey to the city and Chicago's Loop. Its large store front window afforded him a clear view of the surrounding area, while its counter acted as a shield for when he slept.

The view from the window seemed to prove him correct, as he let his eyes pass slowly from one end of the street to the other and he saw nothing but more of the same empty ruin he happened upon the night before.

He turned from the window, no longer concerned with concealing himself from its view, and walked back to the counter, where he bent to retrieve his backpack from the warped and dusty floor. He stopped just as his finger grazed the edge of the pack's nylon strap. Every inch of his body tensed in readiness as though he were a spring wound tight, capable of hair-trigger release.

Not moving from his bent position, he cocked his ear in the direction of the soft scraping sound that penetrated the hushed and tranquil room like the shrill cry of an alarm in the still of the night.

It seemed to be coming from the rear of the deli, where an opened archway led to a back room he had inspected the night before and found to be empty of anything except an old, unplugged and probably unusable chest-type freezer that still held the faintest detection of spoiled meat.

Very slowly he eased himself up from his position over the backpack, trying not to shift his weight as he rose. He adjusted his breathing to a shallow inhale. Stop. Slow and easy exhale. His heart pounded in his chest.

For an instant the sound ceased. Then after a moment of uneasy silence, continued.

Holding on to the counter for support, Francis let his eyes wander cautiously around the room, letting himself become completely familiar with his surrounding in case he had to act in haste. The scraping noise continued but it was joined by another strange sound. One he could not immediately identify.

Shifting his weight now to his left foot, he took a tentative step forward, being careful to avoid the discarded backpack. The noise continued, uninterrupted. Francis gingerly took another step, then another.

He was now at the end of the counter but not close enough to get a clear view of the back room. He stepped from behind the counter. The rotted floor creaked beneath his weight. He stopped abruptly. Holding his breath, he stood stock-still, his ears strained to any deviation to the peculiar disturbance he heard, but there was no change. The noise