The Aftermath

64

Three months later, Tom sat at his work bench, in his garage, in his home, in San Diego. They had just returned from the funeral. It was a large one, with several hundred people in attendance. Charlie never really recovered from her ordeal, mentally or physically. She died from an overdose of sleeping pills. Tom never heard what kind.

Tom and his girls were in Paris for most of those three months. Traveling to France was an adventure itself.

Angie traveled with an electric wheel chair. She was awake most of the day now, instead of sleeping as often as cats do. They took the train across the country, and then a ship across the Atlantic, and then another train to Paris. Gray met them at the station with a large van which had a lift. Angie and her electric chair fit smoothly into the back.

The place Gray found for them was a bottom floor apartment. Not their first choice, but Gray strongly suggested that they surrender the romance of a top floor balcony scene, since most of the elevators in Paris were born before WWI. This turned out to be good advice.

When Angie was awake they walked around the neighborhood, buying clothing, flowers, bread and cheeses, and drinking chocolate in cafes. They spoke only in French and in the three months their improvement was enough they weren't automatically receiving grimaces from the natives.

Tom sat at his work bench staring at the tools hanging on the wall. His eyes wandered down to the clean surface of the bench, and then to the red Craftsman stacked tool box beside the bench.

When he was arrested, Detective Roads was quick to get a warrant and search his home. The officers who arrived were thorough. They took apart the tool box, searched over every tool box on the bench, opened and dumped every box underneath.

Tom had not touched this workbench area since then, other than to put everything away. He stood from the stool and reached behind the workbench, flipping a lever lock, and pulled out a long steel rod. Doing the same at the bottom of the bench, he freed it from the wall. Setting the rods on the work bench, he slid it out from the wall. Under it was a floor safe with a steel lid over the door. Tom removed the steel plate, and then punched in the numbers for the safe. Opening the door he reached inside, and pulled out the black canvas bag that filled the safe. Tom closed the door, put back the lid, and slid the bench back against the wall.

Opening the bag, he pulled out a set of scalpels, a military taser gun, four cartridges for the weapon, and a tongue depressing gag made of hard black rubber.

The choppers were deafening in his head, driving him into periods of listlessness, and madness. He had to quiet them. He had to stop the dreams. He lasted six months without an incident. Tom really believed it was all over. But nothing was over, nothing at all. The screams still woke him, and the choppers were still coming in, coming in, but never landing.

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