DARK JUNGLE

A K&R STORY WITH MARSHALL SINCLAIR AND TERRY THORNE

By Jo

He had no idea what was happening. He'd left Eden at the hairdressers in Campeche and he and Wadsworth headed back to the Hotel Coronado. There was to be a black-tie dinner that night in the hotel's ballroom for the investors in the giant MetzaLong Corporation. It hadn't been until he'd spoken with his lawyer, Charles Gromley, in January back in Pennsylvania

when the complete list of what he'd inherited from his father was laid out, that Marshall had even discovered what a vast amount of stock he held in the corporation. His percentage was,

in fact, so large that his presence at this stockholder's meeting in southern Mexico was fairly well required. A sudden breakthrough in technology, enabling the production of biodegradable plastic bags, had sent the stock value through the roof. Most of the world's largest retailers

were clamoring for the new product and a meeting had been called to discuss what appeared now to be the unlimited future of the company.

A tux had been delivered to the Sinclair's suite while he'd been out with his wife and he was joking with his seeing-eye dog, Wadsworth, a 120 pound German shepherd, as he slid the key card into its slot. "Black tie, eh?" he chuckled. "You think that means you need one for your collar tonight?"

He walked into the suite, anticipating being able to touch Eden's silk gown later that evening. He would 'gaze' at what she was wearing by letting his hands glide over what she had on, a practice that had led to their being late for more than one occasion. He smiled, lost in thought, then suddenly realized Wadsworth was growling.

"What's...?" he began, but then the big dog let out a yelp and sank into a heap at his feet.

"Wadsworth!" Marshall cried, bending over him, reaching down to feel his fur.

But his arms were grabbed on either side and he was propelled off-balance across the living

area and into the bedroom where he was flung on his back atop the bed, spread-eagled, arms and legs held down. He was gasping with the utter shock and surprise of it all when he felt a thick cloth pressed over his face. A penetratingly sweet odor filled his mouth and nose, his tongue burned, and his glottis began to spasm in an effort to cut off whatever was invading his lungs. Pulse pounding, he tried to arch his back, twist his head to the side, but he was held

down so tightly he couldn't move. Then, even in his desperation, he was aware he was losing

the power to move, his glottis quieted, his pulse slowed, his breathing grew steadily shallower. After four minutes, a convulsive muscular tremor ran through his entire body, indicating the severage of himself from control over his central nervous system, and he sank into complete insensibility.

There were six men in the room, their faces covered by ski masks. Four had held his arms and legs, the fifth had applied the chloroform, and the sixth filmed the entire thing.

"Mrs. Sinclair," Terry Thorne said, warily eyeing the videotape in the woman's hand, "I think you should let me look at that first...alone."

"No," she replied firmly, "I see it when you see it, Mr. Thorne. It's got to be of my husband.

It's my right."

"It won't be pretty," he sighed. "You've got to prepare yourself for seeing something probably quite shocking." How often had he said those words to some family member when a photograph was what he had in an envelope. What in God's name would be on a video tape?

"I've been fairly well shocked already, Mr. Thorne. Coming here from having my hair done, expecting to find my husband waiting in his tux...and instead discovering Waddy lying on the floor."

"They obviously had to neutralize his dog first thing," Terry nodded. "At least," he added,

"they tranquilized him, didn't kill him."

"No, at least they didn't do that." Wadsworth came up beside her, pressing hard against her legs. She stroked between his ears. "We'll get him back, Waddy, don't you worry, boy. We'll

get him back." She stared at Terry. "Won't we?"

"That's why I'm here, Mrs. Sinclair. It's what I do."

"I hope you're damn good at it!"

"Here, let me put the tape in. Why don't you take a seat on the couch?" he suggested, taking

the tape from her unwilling fingers. He looked at her, a very attractive woman with deep

auburn hair in her mid-30's. "We will get him back, you know. I'll see to it."

This was Terry's first case in which the hostage was blind. It added a whole new dimension to the process, especially if he were backed into a corner and had to go extract the man himself.  He had no idea what they'd find on the tape. A courier had left it at the hotel desk for Eden a half hour ago. It had been nearly two days now since Marshall had been taken. From the homework Terry had done on the man, it was no wonder he'd been singled out. The man had more money than Vanderbilt. He lived fairly modestly, though, and had been until last spring a professor of literature at Duquesne University in Pittsburgh. Nothing at all about his life style would indicate what lay in his bank accounts. Terry found himself liking that about the man.

Terry had been in Mexico City, having just completed an assignment and was ready to fly back to London when he'd been urgently contacted about the Sinclair case. He guessed it was probably the fact of the man's blindness that grabbed his interest, that led him to take a new case so hard on the heels of just finishing another.

He pushed the tape into its slot, picked up the remote and sat on the other end of the couch 

from Eden. Looking sideways at her, he asked, "Are you ready?"

She nodded silently, her hands gripped in her lap, her lips pressed whitely together. She was several months pregnant and that worried Terry quite a bit. "You're sure I shouldn't...?"

"I'm sure, Mr. Thorne. Please, let it start."  Wadsworth sat close, his head resting in her lap.

He sighed again and pressed 'play'.

The cameraman had panned around the suite before Marshall arrived, clearly revealing the presence of the five other men, all dressed in black, their heads completely covered except for their eyes. Eden sucked in a sharp breath. "So many," she murmured.

Terry's eyes were intent on the large, flat-screen TV. This was new. He'd never seen the like

of it. They were filming the kidnapping. He scanned each man, looking for the smallest detail, but other than a sense of general height and size, nothing was revealed. The door opened and Marshall was clearly seen, smiling and talking to Wadsworth as he entered.

Eden's hand went to her mouth. "Oh, Marshall," she almost moaned.

So this was the man in action. Terry watched him, getting some brief idea of how he handled himself. Then the dog went down and Marshall was grabbed by two of the men, hauled quickly to the bedroom. He twisted vainly as two more men came up, clamping down on his legs.

Eden's pulse sped up, her lips grew whiter.

The fifth man approached with the cloth. "Chloroform," Terry muttered, "cheap but effective."

Briefly he checked the second hand of his watch, wanting to note how long the cloth was held

in place. After four minutes he saw the convulsive shudder he'd been waiting for. Now Marshall was out cold, but the man held the cloth in place another 90 seconds. "Not good," he muttered under his breath.

"What? What do you mean?" Eden asked, turning frightened eyes toward him.

Terry pressed 'pause' before he answered. "There's a procedure to the use of chloroform, 

Mrs. Sinclair," he explained. "It needs to be mixed with air for the sake of the patient, well, medically-speaking, that is. It's better if just a very light mixture is given at first and the cloth isn't closer than an inch and a half from the face. That lets the needed air in to mix with the vapor. It's easier on the person being sedated." He didn't mention that they were also more
likely to live through the experience.

"Go on," she urged when he paused.

He licked his lips. "When a cloth is held forcibly and tightly over the nose and mouth, there's

no opportunity for air to dilute the vapors, and with just an unmeasured pour into the cloth,

no way to tell how much it contains, what the strength of the vapors are." He didn't really

want to continue with this.

"Please," she said. "I must know. I have to know. Why did he shudder there like he did after

a while? What did that mean?"

Oh, God, she was going to keep pushing, wasn't she? "You want to know all...this?"

"It happened to my husband. Yes, I want to know, I want to understand."

"Well, there are three stages to it." He knew. He'd been chloroformed himself.  "At first you

feel like you're being asphyxiated, the pulse speeds wildly, the pupils dilate, the throat tries to close. It's not...pleasant." God, no, he remembered. That first stage was truly horrible. "Then you lose all power to move but you're still sort of aware, though everything is skewed. The shudder is the third stage and happens when the loss of motion has progressed to a total extinction of power and the central nervous system has been taken out of your control."

"Why did you say 'not good'?"

"The kidnapper is keeping the cloth there after that point. He wants to make the level of insensibility...profound."  He knew that large, strong men handled chloroform the worst, had

a well-documented history of by far the highest death rate from its application. Their awareness tended to continue for much longer and then they simply crashed. There had been that case where the man hadn't lost consciousness for twelve minutes. When he finally shuddered and

did, he died immediately. Chloroform was serious stuff, no matter how easy the movies made

it seem.

"That's bad?"

"Let's just say it's not good. I wish I knew if these men know what they're doing. It's more delicate a process, well,  than it looks like in the movies. Can have more repercussions if bungled." He tried to gauge her well-being. "In movies, too, you see the person collapse sometimes within a couple of seconds. It doesn't work that way in real life. They never really show the stages of it, and there always are stages, but there's also the point that the unconsciousness doesn't last as long  as it does in the movies. That was one of the things it

took a while for doctors to learn to regulate in the mid-1800's...when and how much to reapply during surgery." The Crimean War, indeed, had been its testing ground, when doctors

learned the hard way about how a man who was terribly wounded and in shock would

respond to being disconnected from his central nervous system.

He resumed the tape, extremely curious as to what else might be on the thing. Three of the

men pulled Marshall off the bed, carrying him between them toward the living room, camera

following again.

"He...he looks like he's totally unconscious," she murmured. His head, unsupported, hung

sharply and limply back as he was carried.

"He is. Even after inhalation is suspended, the residual vapor in the lungs and blood makes the symptoms more profound for a short time."  It was just a tape. He couldn't touch Marshall's skin to see if it had become clammy, couldn't see if his pupils had contracted tightly, tell how feeble his pulse might have become. Such rapid and forceful inhalation could send a man spiraling into a coma, could stop his lungs from working...or his heart. But they were still

taking him. He must be alive. If he'd died, they'd have left him there.

"Oh, God," she breathed quietly.

The screen faded to black then resumed inside the back of a panel truck. Marshall lay on the floor, his hands and feet bound with duct tape, his head lolled to the side. Other than him, all that could be seen were the lower legs and boots of men sitting on either side. Eden folded her arms tightly across her chest. The camera zoomed in on his face as though his captors wanted the watchers to get a close view. There was no way of telling how much time had elapsed, how they had managed to get him out of the hotel. Terry had already checked that. Nobody seemed to have seen anything.

The camera stayed close on his face as his parted lips closed, then opened again, his tongue coming out a bit to lick across his lower lip. "He's coming to!" Eden cried.

Terry said nothing, his eyes locked on the screen.

Marshall's head turned slowly back and forth maybe three times, then a hand appeared with

a cloth again, this time just laying it over the lower half of his face, leaving it there. Within seconds his head lolled to the side again, the cloth sliding off. His hair was grabbed, his head forcibly straightened, and the cloth replaced. One of the seated men stuck out his foot, using

the side of his black boot to keep Marshall's head from tipping again

"Do they know what they're doing?" Eden gasped.

"I wish I knew," Terry gritted. "Damn, but I wish I knew if they do!"

The scene faded again, stayed black a while. Terry let it play, hoping for more.

"They're keeping him unconscious," Eden whispered. "That's their plan? To keep him like

that?"

"For now, yes, it seems so."  He wasn't sure just why. They had him bound. He was blind. Maybe that was it? They didn't know what to do with a blind captive and keeping him

insensible was just easier? How long did they think they could keep it up without killing him?

The screen flickered then revealed Marshall again. He lay upon some rude bed with four rough posters at each corner. His limbs were tied to each post and the cloth again lay over his face,

his head being held in place by rags stuffed on either side. Terry wondered how much time had passed, how often the chloroform had been given. Was this portion filmed the day of the kidnapping? Yesterday? Today?  Had they been giving it to him all this time? Prolonged administration could lead to liver damage, among other things.

His eyes scanned around the details of the room. Dirt floor, rough plank walls with quite a bit

of mold and mildew on them. Through a wide crack in a board he could see intense green beyond.  They'd taken him out of the city into the jungle somewhere. His shirt had been

removed and he lay bare-chested, his chest rising and falling almost imperceptibly.  Didn't

they know too much of the damn drug could result in respiratory paralysis? Or didn't they care? The kidnappers obviously wanted them to see the condition they had him in. What next? He was hoping one of them would talk, make demands, let him hear a voice, give him something to work with.

But, no, a chalkboard filled most of the screen, a gloved hand writing on it: You see Dr. Sinclair. No food. No bathroom. No anything. Maybe we let him wake, maybe not. He not live long. Die soon. You be quick. Most urgently quick.

This was followed by a demand for four million US dollars, a complicated set of directions as

to where it should be taken, and a repetition of the need for quickness as they were not going

to feed him, just leave him tied to the bed. This is real, the chalk wrote. You see for yourself

how real. You not see Sinclair again. Be quick. Maybe he still alive.  Then the chalkboard was pushed aside and the camera zoomed in on Marshall's face again. The cloth was removed.

They want her to see him, Terry thought angrily. They want her to...know. The gloved hand

was seen pouring a really large slug of chloroform onto the cloth, which was held briefly

toward the camera, then the hand clamped the cloth tightly over his face, pressing hard,

leaning forward, the weight of the man's body behind his arm.  The force was entirely unnecessary. Marshall wasn't struggling, couldn't struggle. Terry swore that Marshall's entire body seemed to sink somehow more into the ratty mattress as though he'd gone some place far too deep. They didn't show how long this went on. They didn't want the watchers to know. All they wanted was to emphasize their willingness to harm him. The board was briefly there, the hand scrawling,  Most urgently quick. No negotiation. $4 million US. Two days. He not live

longer. You fuck with us, he die.

That was all. The tape ran a while longer but it was all black. Eden sat, rubbing Wadsworth's head with her right hand, her left spread over her rounded belly, tears running freely down

her face.

"Mrs. Sinclair?" Terry said, worriedly leaning toward her. He knew what the man had written was true. Marshall would be lucky to make it for two days. He wasn't even sure he'd survived

that last application. It had been deliberately huge, deliberately vicious. He was already unconscious. They were simply making a point, wanted it clearly seen that they meant business, that they'd kill him. They just might already have. The dose, the way the man had pressed so tightly. Not a bit of air would have mixed with the powerful amount of vapors. It could easily have stopped his lungs, his heart.

"Eden," she gasped. "Please, just Eden. If...if you're going to save him...please...just Eden." 

She wasn't sure why she said that right now. Maybe the Mrs. Sinclair from the man upon

whom she'd placed all her hopes was just not...right. She didn't know. As far as she was

concerned, he held Marshall's life in his hands and Mrs. Sinclair was too removed, too formal

for her to deal with because of that.  

"Eden," he repeated. "Terry'll do for me. If that's ok?"

She nodded. "Terry. Find him, Terry. Bring him back."  She reached and took the remote 

from his hand, rewinding it a bit to where she could see Marshall's whole face, pausing it

there. Almost as though in a trance, she got up, crossed the room and knelt in front of the TV, touching his face with her fingers.

Terry watched her, moved to his core by the obvious depth of her love. His jaw squared, teeth clenching, as his eyes lifted to the still face on the screen. She was tracing his lips with her fingers, then stretched up a bit, enough so she could kiss each of his eyes. Everything in him wanted to get that man back to this woman. It wasn't at all like Alice. Alice, who had had such misgivings about her relationship with her husband. No, this woman loved the man on the

screen with every fiber of her being. He respected that, honored the rare, true beauty of it.

"I'll see he gets home to you," he said softly. "I'll do everything to make that happen."

But right now he had nothing to go on. Nothing. And the kidnappers didn't want to negotiate. That's what he was...a negotiator. Peter had been gone week after week, the negotiations going endlessly on and on. Marshall had two days, probably less, if he were even still alive. He sighed, scrubbing his hand across his face.

ON TO PART 2

BACK TO LIBRISCROWE

BACK TO MARSHALL'S STORY, THE CAVERN OF DEEP HARMONY