A Memory of Elephants

By Simon Quellen Field

Wade Bennet was shot in the arm while rescuing the kidnapped daughter of a crime boss.\

But that is only the beginning of his problems.

The daughter is now missing after maybe shooting her father with a gun taken from the kidnappers Wade killed.

At every turn, new evidence brings to light new mysteries, and no one can be trusted.

And that is just the beginning of Wade's problems.

• Language: English
• Publisher: MicroScience Press
• Release date: Mar 7, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215127117

Book preview

Chapter One

The sleek Jaguar looked tiny as it pulled into the parking spot next to the big Hummer. Wade Bennett walked casually over to the smaller car as the driver opened the door. Doctor Morrison?

Yes, indeed. It's a pleasure to meet you Mr. Bennett. He shook Wade's extended hand and closed the car door, looking around at the grounds of the country club. And it's nice to get out of the office in the middle of the day.

Sorry about that. But I need a trusted location. Some place I can be sure there is no one listening. I hope it's not too inconvenient. I'm sure you've treated plenty of paranoids before. Wade smiled.

There was a slight pause. Actually, no, I haven't. You didn't mention that on the phone. Have you been diagnosed? Morrison studied Wade's face as he spoke.

Wade laughed. I'll let you be the judge of that. I was just referring to the precautions I take. In my line of work, it comes naturally, being extra cautious. But there are a number of reasons I can't afford to have anyone listen to what we are about to discuss. After you've heard a bit, you can tell me if I'm being too careful, or if you think I'm a nut case.

Your line of work. Do you mean your law firm, or your security business?

Wade smiled again. Been doing your homework, have you?

Morrison shrugged, leaning back against the car. Just what Google had to say about you.

I do kidnap and ransom negotiations. Hostage rescue, when it's needed. We keep a low profile. Our clients like their privacy. But I'd like to talk to you about matters that are more personal. Things I need to know will stay between the two of us.

Absolutely. Patient confidentiality is paramount. A psychiatrist needs to have the trust of the patient, or the communication doesn't work.

Can I ask you to leave your cell phone in the car? Wade asked.

Another pause. I can turn it off. I never let it disrupt a session.

It would still register as a listening device, Wade said, holding up a small electronic device. The scanner would complain. And we can lock your electronic car key in my car. Then we can walk around the golf course and talk, and we'll know nobody is listening.

The doctor opened the car door. "You know this does seem a little extreme. He dropped his phone onto the passenger seat and stood up to close the car door again. Would you like to start with that? Do you have feelings of persecution? The car beeped as he pushed the button on the electronic key, and the door locks made a satisfying chunk" as they secured the car.

Wade held his hand out patiently for the car key. When it was finally offered, he spoke again. I'm a lawyer. I know there are four kinds of people that are safe from subpoenas. My lawyer, my wife, if I had one, my priest, and my doctor. He walked over to the Hummer, and Morrison followed. I used to talk to my best friend's father. He was a minister. But I'm not religious, and we always ended up arguing about whether there is a god or not. Until he drank himself to death. Wade reached the Hummer, but instead of opening the door, he turned around to face Morrison again.

I don't have my own lawyer. Never needed one. My dad has dozens I can use any time I get out of my areas of expertise. So that leaves a doctor. And the more I got thinking about it, the more it made sense to talk to a shrink. I do things that seem to make perfect sense, to me at least, but normal people don't do those things. I need to know if I'm just rationalizing stuff. If maybe I'm a sociopath like my dad and his dad, and I'm just fooling myself into thinking it's the right thing to do. And at the same time, we can talk about problems with women, and my daddy issues, and all that crap if you like, so you feel you're earning your money.

Morrison spoke to the back of Wade's head as the larger man had turned around again. You have 'daddy issues'?

I'm a trust fund kid whose father bought himself a Senate seat. Of course I have daddy issues. Wade locked the doctor's car keys in the Hummer, using a non-electronic key. He led the doctor out onto the golf course, looking at the scanner in his hand.

You mentioned subpoenas, Morrison said.

Wade looked into the doctor's face for a moment, then casually back to the scanner in his hand, then around the golf course slowly. The nearest players were a hundred yards away. Not everything I do is strictly legal. Normal people go to the police or the FBI when they need a hostage rescued. People who need my team's help aren't always comfortable with the police. If I talk to you about things that you're uncomfortable with, is that going to be a problem?

What kinds of things are we talking about?

Smart question to ask. If you'd just told me no, I'd wonder if I could trust you. Or if I wasn't the only sociopath in the conversation. Bad things. Things you'd want the police to know about. What if I told you I'd strangled my grandmother? Would you go to the cops?

Did you strangle your grandmother?

Hypothetically.

Morrison looked up at the taller man. I'm sure it was in self-defense.

Wade smiled. She deserved it. She poisons puppies. And kittens.

Deplorable behavior, but it hardly warrants capital punishment, don't you think?

Suppose she'd kidnapped someone. And she's holding them at gunpoint. And it's my job to rescue that person.

And you can't have the police do that job?

Wade stopped walking and turned towards Morrison. See, here's where I need your opinion. If a cop shot someone during a hostage rescue, is that OK? The guy didn't shoot first; he's just in the way. The cop takes him out, so he can get to the hostage. We don't lock the cop up for life. It's just his job. After law school, I signed up for Afghanistan. They gave us guns, trained us to kill people, and sent us out to find some other guys that had been trained and given guns. And kill them. And it was OK. It was part of the job. Those guys hadn't done anything to me. It was their country. But I can shoot at them, because my dad and some other guys in Washington say it's OK. They sent me there to do that. Just like some other guys sent the kids I was shooting at. What makes that OK?

Maybe three thousand people dying in the World Trade Center?

Wade waved his arms, at nothing in particular. Bin Laden's dead. Before he was dead, we'd already lost more than three thousand kids in Afghanistan. And killed a lot more than that of the other guys. We kicked the Taliban out of office and replaced them with our guys. Swapped religious extremists for corrupt warlords. When they sent my squad out to shoot kids holding AKs and RPGs, all that shit was over. But you see some kid setting up an IED, you shoot him, you don't arrest him and put him on trial. And they tell you that's OK. More than that, they tell you it's your job, your duty.

And you feel conflicted about that.

No. Not at all. That's the thing. I was there to do the job. Some kid shoots at us. We kill him. He sets up an IED. We shoot him. That's the job. Someone said it was OK, so it's OK. Who gets to say it's OK?

You're looking for justification.

I didn't need any of that. It was a war. They gave us guns and told us to kill people. And I did that. And I don't feel like I did anything wrong. Isn't that exactly what makes a sociopath?

Morrison was quiet, apparently at a loss.

Wade didn't wait long before continuing. Nobody puts you in jail for killing kids in a war, as long as they are doing bad things. Even though the 'bad' things they are doing are the same things you're doing. Pointing guns at people, telling people what to do, how to live. And the cop who shoots the kidnapper. He gets a free pass too. But he has to warn the guy, or pretend to see him pull a gun, or at least start running away. The guy is running away, and the cop gets to shoot him in the back. Kill him. And it's OK.

Morrison studied Wade's face. And you think you should feel bad about that.

Not particularly.

I mean, you're worried that accepting that makes you a sociopath.

What if I told you that it wasn't a cop. Suppose it was me. Would you turn me into the police?

No.

Just like that. No hesitation. Somebody tells you they committed a murder, and you're OK with it.

Morrison seemed to choose his words carefully. My place is to help the client. I can't do that unless they can trust me. So, no, I wouldn't go to the police.

So maybe we're both sociopaths, Wade said. Helping to cover up a murder. Because it's just part of the job. How do you feel about that?

You seem to be trying to switch our roles, here.

Wade kicked at a plug of sod left by the lawn aerating machines. I need someone I can talk to about these things. So, I don't talk to the wrong people about them. But I didn't actually mean to talk about that today.

What did you want to discuss today?

Women. Relationships. My girlfriend.

Morrison seemed relieved at first that the subject had changed. Then he looked worried. Does she know about your other concerns?

Wade laughed. Probably more than I do. She's very bright, and perceptive. She writes children's books, and teaches third grade.

And she's OK with what you do.

I don't tell her everything. She doesn't ask. I'm sure Christy gets an earful from Susan. Including all the details about every woman I ever met.

Morrison puzzled out the relationships. Christy is your girlfriend?

Wade nodded.

And you're having trouble with the relationship?

Not yet. But I don't want it to be like the others. Or like my father's women. And I think I know what was wrong, and I have an idea how to fix it, but things are quickly getting way too complicated.

––––––––

-oOo-

Christy and Barb sat together on the small sofa and looked at the luggage still sitting by the door. Christy's tall slender frame contrasted with Barb's more rounded features, and she still had the athleticism of her college basketball training, which showed most in her bare calves and what parts of her thighs could be seen under her cutoff jeans.

He just dropped them there and left? Barb asked.

Not abruptly, Christy said. We talked. We hugged. But he was late for some meeting, something important. Something happened when he was gone. He wouldn't talk about it. He was distracted.

But he said it was in there.

Not, not exactly. He said he brought me something.

But he didn't give it to you. You know what it is. It has to be a ring. He wants to give it to you when he has everything set up. Dinner at a nice place, candles, some guy with a violin...

Then why spoil the surprise? Why tell me he has something?

So, you could back out?

I'm not backing out!

Barb stood up, and walked over to the two suitcases, one small, and one large. Does he know that? Maybe he thinks you're not ready.

He'd have asked Susan.

And she would say?

She would tell him to get a small one. Not some huge rock you can see from space.

You trust her, Barb said still facing the suitcases, but turning her head around to face Christy.

She introduced us. She wants this to work more than anything.

Did you talk to her?

She's still in Vegas. Wade came back early. The rest of the team is still there.

Barb went back to staring at the luggage. Which one do you think it's in?

His is the little one. He always travels light. He buys what he needs when he's there. Then leaves it in the hotel room. You know about Wade and money. It doesn't matter what something costs, if it's a bother he'll just leave it and buy another one later.

So whose is this?

I don't know. Maybe stuff for work.

So let's see if it's in there, Barb said, reaching for the smaller suitcase.

Hey! That's his private stuff!

He left it in your living room. How private does he think it is?

Close it back up. That's not polite.

"Come on, you've already seen his underwear. Hell, you've already washed his underwear."

Barb, stop it.

It's not snooping. You're just doing his laundry for him. Being nice.

Put all that stuff back.

Barb held a pair of slacks up to her nose. This is fresh from the dry cleaner. All this stuff looks like he never used it. The clothing was set out neatly on the carpet next to the now empty suitcase. Barb patted the pockets. No ring. She started putting the clothes back into the suitcase.

Stop that. He'll know we were in there. We'll wash it, like you said.

Now you're making sense.

You gave me no choice.

Who comes back from a business trip with clean socks? Barb asked, holding a pair up to her nose.

Someone who doesn't expect his girlfriend to do his laundry.

Someone who expects paparazzi to bribe TSA agents to give them photos of his dirty underwear.

Ewww! Christy said, wrinkling her nose. Would they do that? He didn't fly though. He hired a limo.

All the way from Vegas? Jesus, what would that cost?

He can't sleep on planes. He's too tall.

Even first class?

"I don't know. Maybe he just hates people going through his luggage. His personal stuff."

Barb ignored the emphasis. This one's locked.

Good.

He has this expensive little fancy case, and this big cheap-ass cloth-sided plastic piece of shit. And the piece of shit is the one with the little lock on it. Barb tried to pick up the suitcase. Jesus, this sucker's heavy. It must weigh fifty pounds.

It's probably equipment. For his job. Security stuff. Cameras maybe, electronic stuff.

Guns?

Don't be silly.

No, really. That explains why he took the limo. So that he can bring a ton of machine guns and ammunition.

It was a security convention. Speeches and booze. Drumming up business. He wasn't on an op.

An op. It sounds so cool when you say that. Like the CIA or something. You know these TSA locks just fall open if you hit them with something.

You are not hitting the lock with anything!

There's three numbers on the combination. You're the math teacher. How many numbers is that?

A thousand. My third graders could figure that one out.

How long would it take to try them all?

We're not trying them all. Anyway, you have a fifty-fifty chance of it opening after you try half of them.

Even better. How long do you think it would take?

We're not doing it.

How long?

Christy sighed. What would it take to do one number? Maybe you could do two per second? So, five hundred seconds worst case, two-fifty for even odds.

What's that in minutes?

Divide by sixty.

Come on!

Don't be lazy. Two forty would be four minutes. So a little more than that.

Easy peazy. It's already at 001. We try 002, 003 ...

You missed 000.

I can go back. Oh.

What?

That was it. It's open.

The combination was 000?

It's open.

Nobody set it. They come set at 000 by the factory.

Some security expert. Barb removed the lock and started unzipping the suitcase.

It's probably not his. Or he doesn't care.

Shit.

What?

Holy holy holy holy shit on a fucking muffin.

Close it back up. Christy jumped up off the couch and strode over to Barb and the suitcases.

It's all in hundreds.

Close it back up.

No wonder he took the limo.

Put that back in there!

He comes back from Vegas with a suitcase full of hundred-dollar bills. It goes all the way down to the bottom! It's all hundreds. This is ten grand right here, look it says so on the little band!

Put it back where it came from. It's not ours.

How much do you think is in there?

Christy took the bundle of bills out of Barb's hand. The bills were arranged on end, eight across. At the far end, there was a single bundle. Christy put the one she had taken from Barb next to it.

Thirty-one, Barb said.

What?

Rows. Eight across and thirty-one long. How much is that?

Two forty, plus eight.

And two more at the end.

Two fifty.

Times ten grand. How much is that?

Two and a half million.

Jesus H. Christ.

Christy zipped the suitcase closed and picked up the little lock. She clipped the lock between the two zipper pulls and started spinning the numbers with her thumb, over and over again. Then she stopped, and carefully set it to 001.

Not a word of this to anyone, she said.

Barb was quiet for several seconds. Do you think it's real?

What?

Maybe it's counterfeit. Funny money.

What if it's real? Christy's eyes did not focus on the suitcase, but seemed to look through the wall and out into the street.

We should check. Open it back up.

I don't think, Christy said, but Barb already had the lock open again. She unzipped the case and pulled one of the two loose bundles back out. She rubbed her finger vigorously across the face of the top bill, and then looked at her fingertips.

It doesn't smudge. We need one of those pen things. We should take this down to Starbucks. They have those pens they use when you give them a twenty.

We're not taking anything out of the house.

We could take one to the bank. Ask them if it's real.

No way!

"What if it's just Hollywood money? You know, like for TV or something. The bad guys open a suitcase full of money, and it has to