MAISON BLANCHE, NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA. A hurricane is making its way inland from the Gulf of Mexico. Just as the last of the partygoers are retreating to the relative safety of the hunting lodge, Roman Brady, accompanied by a state trooper with a search warrant, shows up at the door of the plantation. The two law officers are admitted with great reluctance by the very angry Tony and Kristen, who show them through the house. Their search is thorough and painstaking, and only slightly hampered by an inevitable power failure. After a half-hour delay, they continue their task in the diminished lighting provided by a generator, but find nothing significant until they are confronted by a locked iron door in the basement.
“Where’s the key, Tony?” Roman demanded. Tony glared at him defiantly. “I don’t know. I haven’t been down here since we arrived.”
“Kristen?” She glared too, shaking her head. “I haven’t been down here either.”
“Well, someone’s been down here; that’s a brand new lock.” Roman pointed to the shiny circle gleaming brightly against the dull surface of the door. “And whoever it was wanted to hide whatever is in there very badly. It’s a pick-proof lock; you can’t get in without the key.” He turned his coldest police stare on the couple who had considered him a friend until a few hours ago. “I want that key.”
“We don’t have it.” Tony returned his stare with equal coldness, while Kristen crossed her arms and continued to glare at him.
“Very well. Since you won’t cooperate, that search warrant authorizes me to take whatever steps I deem necessary to complete the search of these premises. I suggest you step back.” Then, as both Tony and Kristen gasped in shock and hurriedly backed away, Roman drew his gun, aimed it directly at the lock, and pulled the trigger.
The explosion in the confined space of the basement corridor was deafening. The soundwaves bounced off the walls, assaulting the delicate bones and membranes of their ears, but even as Tony and Kristen held their heads in pain, voicing protests thankfully unheard, Roman ignored the ringing pain in his own ears to examine the lock. The large caliber bullet had made a big hole; a hole big enough for him to slip his lockpicks through, and, with some careful manipulation, work the bolt free.
One hand on his gun, having no idea what he would find inside, Roman signaled for the trooper and the DiMeras to move back well out of danger; then standing prudently to one side, he pulled on the handle of the heavy door. As it swung open, a stifling blast of hot, stale air rolled into the corridor, but that was all. Sighing with relief, Roman holstered his gun and peered cautiously into the dim room. When his eyes finally adjusted to the gloom, he felt the blood drain from his face and fought down a wave of nausea. Whatever he had expected to find, it wasn’t this: he was looking into a medieval torture chamber...a torture chamber with the victim still inside.
Roman backed slowly away from the doorway and turned to the others. He couldn’t disguise the sickness he felt, and the moment Tony and Kristen saw his face their anger vanished. “What’s wrong, Roman?” Kristen asked fearfully. “What’s in there?”
Forcing words past the lump in his throat, Roman said hoarsely, “I think you better go upstairs, Kristen. You don’t want to see this.” Before she could protest, he turned to the state trooper. “Franklin, call the paramedics. We need them here fast. Tell them we have a severely injured man out here, possibly dying.”
“Yes, sir.” Franklin was already running for the stairs when Roman’s words registered with Kristen. “There’s an injured man in there?” she cried in alarm--alarm which quickly turned to outrage, directed at him. “My God, Roman! You shot somebody!? We have to help him!” Before he could stop her, she darted past him and into the darkness beyond. Moments later he heard her gasp in horror.
Tony also heard. “Kristen!” he shouted. Shoving Roman out of the way, he ran through the door behind her, then he, too, gasped, and backed out of the room, pulling the stricken Kristen with him. She was white and trembling, and Tony put his arms around her, as much to comfort himself as her. They both looked at Roman in shock, horrified and bewildered by what they had just witnessed. “Roman,” Tony finally said in a rasping whisper, “do you have any idea who that is?” He jerked his head toward the room and its gruesome contents behind him.
“No.” Roman shook his head in denial. “I was just following a drug dealer from Salem. I don’t know who that is,” he continued with his own grim nod toward the door, “or what’s been going on here, but I sure as hell intend to find out.” But he was afraid--deep in his gut afraid--that he already knew who was responsible, and he was sure Tony did too. Maison Blanche was a DiMera house after all. If John was right, if Stefano really was alive, something like this was just his style. He was suddenly thankful that John and Marlena were safely out of New Orleans on their romantic cruise, even though it hurt like hell to think of them together. Whatever was going on here probably had nothing to do with he or his family.
“Tony,” Kristen suddenly sobbed, struggling in her husband’s arms, “we have to do something. We have to help that poor man.”
“We will,” Tony assured her. “We will help him. But Roman’s right; I think you should go upstairs.” Kristen’s back stiffened and she drew away from him so she could look him in the face. “I will not go upstairs,” she announced firmly. "We," she emphasized, “are going in there to help that man, and we’re doing it right now.” With that, she disengaged herself from Tony’s arms and started for the door. Tony caught her elbow before she could enter. “Tony...” she started to sputter, but he held his fingers to her lips, silencing her, then said calmly, “I’m not going to stop you, Kristen. I know better than to even try once you’ve made your mind up. But we will need some light in there. I think this is probably it.” He reached for a switch just outside the door and flipped it up, driving the darkness away.
It’s even worse in the light, Roman thought bleakly as he followed Tony and Kristen through the door. Once inside, the three couldn’t help but glance around in morbid interest, finding themselves both fascinated and repelled by their grim surroundings. The room was octagonal in shape, some twenty feet across and almost that high. Eight wooden pillars supported the ceiling, with thick cross beams about fifteen feet up. A chain ending in manacles was draped over one beam, and Roman realized sickeningly that a man whose wrists were locked inside those iron bars would dangle there helplessly, his feet unable to touch the floor. Other features of the room were just as appalling: on a table just inside the door there were clubs and short chains and whips, all stained brown with dried blood; above the table, attached to the wall, was a glass-fronted cabinet holding dark bottles of liquid and several hypodermic syringes; close to another wall was a high-backed wooden chair very similar in appearance to an execution chair, with straps to secure a victim tightly at ankles and knees, wrists and elbows, even chest and neck. There were also high tech aspects to the room. About ten feet above the dirt floor, a television was mounted to the wall, along with three security cameras. The cameras were evenly spaced around the room, but they were all trained on the same location...a location just opposite the door, where a blood smeared man lay motionless on a filthy cot.
The man on the cot didn’t stir as Roman, Kristen and Tony quietly approached. Shirtless, he was curled in a fetal position facing the wall, and his naked back--covered with blood, dark bruises and welts; and swollen, inflamed cuts and gouges--gave mute testimony to the brutality of his treatment. In addition to the cuts and bruises, there were dozens of angry red needle marks covering his upper arms and shoulders and continuing under the shaggy dark hair toward his neck. Only the imperceptible rise and fall of his shoulders indicated that he was even still alive.
His shoulders, Roman thought suddenly, There’s something else about his shoulders. Something I’m missing. He looked at the man’s back again, this time concentrating on his shoulders, and at the same moment his stomach gave a lurch as he realized what he was seeing, he heard Kristen moan, “Oh, no! Oh, God, please, no!” and he knew she had seen the same thing.
“What is it, Kristen?” Tony asked anxiously. “What’s wrong?” Instead of answering, Kristen bent over the man on the cot to examine his right shoulder, and when she found what she had prayed wouldn’t be there, she sank to her knees at the edge of the cot and started sobbing as if her heart would break.
“Kristen?” Bewildered and worried, Tony hovered over her, desperate to help, but not understanding what was wrong. Roman caught him gently by the arm and pulled him a few feet away. “Give her a minute, Tony,” he choked, trying unsuccessfully to hide his own pain and raging fear.
Tony stared at Roman and his wife, suddenly realizing they were both aware of some awful truth that seemed to have eluded him. “What’s going on, Roman? I don’t understand.”
Roman’s mouth felt dry as a desert as he looked at his friend whose father had been the cause of so much suffering for himself and his family, and was certainly the perpetrator of this latest horror. He wanted to shout and break something, but instead he just said quietly, “It’s John.”
“John?” Tony stared blankly at him for a moment, uncomprehending, then he made the connection. "John Black? Are you telling me that’s,” he pointed to the curled up figure on the bed, still motionless despite all the uproar, “John Black?”
“Yes.”
“How can you tell? I mean...with the all the blood and everything...are you sure?” Tony prayed it wasn’t true, remembering the papers he had burned. Papers containing the proof of John’s inhuman treatment before at the hands of Stefano. Papers he had destroyed so Kristen wouldn’t ever learn the truth about their father. Papers which had been the first strand in his own web of lies--lies gone so far he could never get out of them now. And now it had all come full circle. Here was John, again a victim of Stefano’s insanity. And this time there was no hiding it from Kristen. If only he had been honest with her from the beginning, maybe all of this could have been avoided. If only...
Tony pulled himself from his fruitless reverie and tried to concentrate on the here and now. “I’m sure,” Roman was saying. “John has a very distinctive tattoo on his right shoulder. A phoenix. I’m sure you know who put it there.”
“Stefano.”
“Yeah. Anyway, right now it’s covered by one of those bruises, but you can still see it if you look closely. It’s John.”
Tony suddenly remembered something else, and swallowed hard. “Roman, weren’t John and Marlena supposed to be off on a cruise somewhere?”
A look of pain crossed Roman’s face. “Yes. They were,” he replied shortly.
“But if John’s here, then where’s Marlena?”
“I don’t know.” There was naked terror and despair in Roman’s voice as he answered, and Tony put his hand briefly on his friend’s shoulder in support, but he could offer no comfort. They both knew who Marlena was probably with at that moment, and there was nothing comforting about that at all.
“Captain Brady?” Roman and Tony looked up to see the trooper, Franklin, walking toward them. His face was grim as he, too, saw for the first time what the room contained. “Captain, we have a problem,” he informed them gravely as he neared. “The paramedics can’t come; the storm brought power lines down across all the roads. They can’t get in and we can’t get out. They can’t get a chopper in either, not until the storm passes. The earliest they can possibly get medical help out here is noon tomorrow. They say all they can do for us right now is talk us through first aid.”
There was a moments silence as they absorbed the bad news, then Roman said quietly, “I guess we’re on our own then, gentlemen. We’ll just have to do the best we can and pray that it’s enough.” Glancing around the room, he sized up the situation, then turned back to the others. “I think the first thing we have to do is get him out of here. Do you have something we can use as a stretcher, Tony?”
Tony pondered a bit, then nodded, “I think there’s a collapsible cot in the utility room upstairs. That should work.”
As Tony was telling Franklin where to find the cot, Roman walked over to Kristen. She was sitting on the floor, her hand raised as if she wanted to stroke John’s blood-caked hair but was afraid that even a simple touch might hurt him. At Roman’s approach, she raised her head, misery and bewilderment written all over her face. “I don’t understand, Roman.” she whispered. “What’s he doing here? I thought he was with Marlena. Who hurt him like this? Who could do such an awful thing?”
“You know who did it, Kristen,” Roman responded gently. “You just can’t admit it to yourself.”
“No, you’re wrong,” she said desperately. “He couldn’t. He wouldn’t.” She looked over at her husband. “Tony, tell him he’s wrong.”
Tony glanced over at Roman, who stared at him resolutely, willing him to do the right thing--willing him to finally tell Kristen the truth about the father she worshipped, the father who had lied to her all her life. Taking a deep breath, Tony sank to his knees beside his wife and took her hand. “I’m sorry, Kristen, but I can’t do that.”
“Why, Tony? Why can’t you tell him he’s wrong?” her voice was quavering on the verge of tears again.
“Because he isn’t wrong, honey. The only person who could have done this is Stefano.” Even as Kristen’s face crumpled and he took her in his arms to comfort her, Tony felt an immense sense of relief, mingled with sorrow, at finally admitting what he had spent so many years denying. “I’m so sorry, baby,” he murmured, stroking her hair. “I wanted to protect you, but I just can’t do it anymore. This time Stefano’s gone too far.”
“But Stefano’s dead,” Kristen sobbed. “How could he have done this? He’s dead.”
“He’s not dead, Kristen,” Roman told her harshly. “He faked his death, just like he’s done so many times before. Then he lured John down here, and probably Marlena too.” Roman gazed down at the tortured body of his rival and a wave of shame ran through him. “Some of this is my fault,” he muttered. “I knew it was possible Stefano was still alive, and John begged me to come to New Orleans with him, but I was so angry at him that I wouldn’t do it. I wanted to hurt John and Marlena more than I wanted to catch Stefano.” He turned back to Kristen and Tony, and his eyes were filled with regret and self-loathing. “I guess I got what I wanted, didn’t I?”
“Oh, Roman, no, don’t say that.” Faced with someone else’s pain, Kristen put her own aside for the moment as she tried to comfort him. “You were angry at John, but you never wanted something like this to happen. You can’t blame yourself.”
Roman gave her a bleak smile. “Thanks for trying, Kristen, but I’m afraid there isn’t anybody else to blame. I know, better than anybody, just what Stefano is capable of. I knew John was going to be in terrible danger but I just didn’t give a damn. Not only that, I ignored Abe and my family when they kept insisting something was wrong, that John and Marlena wouldn’t stay out of touch with the children for so long. I preferred to think they were so wrapped up in each other that they just forgot to call. And that made me even angrier, that they could just ignore their children like that. Well, my family was right,” he continued bitterly, “but I wouldn’t believe them. I could have tried to do something, but I didn’t. And now, if John dies, I’m going to have to be the one to tell Belle and Brady it’s my fault their Daddy isn’t coming home.”
"Dies!?" Kristen asked sharply. “What are you talking about, Roman?” Jumping to her feet, she grabbed his arm. “What do you mean 'if John dies!?' John isn’t going to die. The paramedics should be here soon, then everything will be all right.”
Roman and Tony looked at each other in dismay, carrying on a swift, silent communication. How could Kristen have possibly missed overhearing their conversation with Franklin? They’d been standing only a few feet away. But apparently she had, and now someone had to break the bad news to her. They reached a mutual decision in seconds, and Tony got to his own feet and pulled Kristen around to face him. “The paramedics aren’t coming, Kristen,” he said quietly. “The storm blocked all the roads.”
“Not coming?” she whispered in disbelief. At his nod of confirmation, her eyes widened in panic. “He needs a doctor, Tony. What are we going to do?”
“We’re going to do everything we can,” he told her with a calmness that hid his own inner anxiety. “Franklin went for a stretcher so we can get John upstairs, then the paramedics will tell us what to do for him by phone.”
“But we don’t have any medicine,” she said tearfully. “We don’t--”
“Kristen,” Roman interrupted gently, “we know we don’t have any medicine. We know we don’t have a lot of things he needs. But we can’t dwell on that right now; what we have to do instead is concentrate on what we do have. And the most important thing we have, the most important thing of all, is four people, right here, willing to do their damndest to keep John alive till help comes. The paramedics will tell us what has to be done, and we’ll do the best we can. But it’s going to take all of us, Kristen, including you. Can you handle that?” He cocked his head at her speculatively, and suppressed a quick grin as her back stiffened and her tears dried up almost magically. “Of course, I can handle it!” she snapped angrily.
“Good,” he replied mildly, thinking with grim amusement, The old ploy still works: question a woman’s competence, and she’ll work twice as hard just to prove you wrong. Kristen and Tony were also apparently caught up in their own thoughts because there was silence after that as they waited for Franklin to return.
The state trooper came through the door a few minutes later. In one hand he carried a folded cot, in the other, a cardboard box. “I brought some sheets too,” he said, setting the cot and the box on the dirt floor. “I thought it might be easier on him if we moved him using a hospital-style transfer. We slip the sheets underneath him, then slide the sheets from the bed to the cot. We ought to be able to do it with four of us, and that way we don’t risk hurting him any further by actually picking him up.”
“Good idea,” Roman told the young trooper in grateful approval. He grabbed two freshly laundered sheets from the box, their clean whiteness such a contrast to the filth and gore surrounding John, and looked at the others. “Let’s get him out of here,” he said determinedly. “I don’t want him to ever have to see this room again.”
Working in concert, they placed the sheets together for strength, then folded them in half lengthwise. They laid the folded sheets on the unoccupied side of John’s bed, with the fold toward the middle, then doubled, and doubled again, the top half back against the fold. After they rolled John over onto the sheets, they would then be able to pull them the rest of the way across the bed fairly easily without disturbing him too much.
When the sheets were ready they grouped at the edge of the bed. “All right,” Roman said, “we’re going to ease him over very gently. Try to avoid touching the worst of his injuries if you possibly can. Kristen, you steady his head. We’ll go on three.” Seeing everyone was in position, Roman asked, “Ready? Okay. One. Two. Three.” On ‘three’ they gingerly pulled John over onto his back, but as his arms and legs unfolded from their cramped position, his rescuers stepped back in horrified surprise. Not only was John in far worse shape physically than they had imagined--with a mass of bruises and infected cuts on his torso equal to if not worse than those on his back; and starvation plainly visible in his hollow cheeks, sunken eyes and painful thinness--it was obvious their rescue operation had just come to a crashing halt. John wasn’t going anywhere.
“My, God!” Kristen choked, staring in shock at the iron shackles encircling John’s bloody wrists and the heavy chain attaching them to the wall. “What are we going to do now?”
“Bolt cutters,” Tony answered quickly. “Bolt cutters might get him out. I think there’s a pair in one of the sheds. Come on, Franklin.” The two raced off, leaving grim silence behind.
The minutes seemed to drag by as they waited for Tony and Franklin to return. While Kristen sat on the edge of the bed holding John’s hand, Roman examined the bottles in the cabinet on the wall by the door. He knew the doctors would have to determine what drugs John had been given, and had been hoping there was some kind of labels on the bottles. Since there wasn’t, he decided to pack them in Franklin’s cardboard box for transport to the hospital along with John. He had just finished when Kristen called to him. “Roman, come take a look at this.”
He hurried across the room. “What is it?”
“There’s some kind of folded paper stuffed under this shackle. Look.” Seated at John’s side, Kristen gently lifted his right arm and showed Roman a tiny corner of bloody white paper just visible at the edge of the heavy iron. “I can’t get it out. Do you have something we can push it out with from the other side?”
“I think so.” Reaching into his inner jacket pocket, Roman pulled out the small notebook he always kept there. He detached the pen clipped to it and said, “Hold his arm steady.”
While Kristen held John’s arm across her lap, Roman gently inserted the pen underneath the shackle. When it met with an obstruction, he started to push, until at last, a wad of paper emerged and fell to the floor. Roman picked up the wad, which turned out be three pieces of paper folded together. They were bloody and dirty, but as he started to unfold them words suddenly became visible, and he stared at them in surprise and shock. “What it?” Kristen asked with concern.
He silently held out the papers so she could read the scrawled words for herself:
If found, please send to Captain Roman Brady, Salem Police Dept., Salem, Illinois.
Kristen looked up from the paper, her lower lip quivering. “That’s John’s handwriting,” she whispered.
“I know.” Roman replied quietly. He turned his gaze toward the ravaged figure on the bed, then back to the bloody papers in his hand. “Let’s see what he has to say.”
to be continued...