A NOWHERE MAN Story
by Marge Brashier
He smiled and thanked Angela as she filled his cup for the third time. He�d sat at the end of the scarred counter for nearly an hour now, contemplating his coffee as if he expected to find the answer to some vital question in its depths. Not that she minded. The diner was half empty and they didn�t need the stool. And she could think of worse things to look at than this handsome stranger with brown wavy hair and soulful face. Something in his expression had frightened her at first, a hard, brittle look darkening his blue eyes, but the sudden, unexpected warmth of his smile made him look younger and less intimidating. She�d tried to get his attention, tossing her head a little as she spoke to him so the sparkling gold earrings would bring out the luster of her thick, black hair and bending low over the counter to pour his coffee, the tight peasant blouse exposing her ample cleavage. But he barely seemed to notice her, nodding politely and returning to his thoughts. Mannie, the manager, noticed. He motioned her into the kitchen and gave her hell for neglecting two of her tables to flirt with some deadbeat who�d only ordered coffee. She bit off an angry retort and said she�d go take care of the tables.
Thomas Veil picked up his coffee cup and sipped absently, wincing with surprise. It was cold and bitter. How long had he sat here thinking about everything and nothing? He�d even lost track of where he was, wondering from town to town, trying to stay one step ahead of them, not even sure if they were still after him. He�d came out west three months ago because of a lead that FBI Assistant Director Robman had been transferred to Reno, but that trail had quickly gone dead. Since then he�d kept on the move, vainly hoping for some clue to find Robman while he tried to work out a plan to find out who he was and what they had done to him.
Turning on his stool to look for the pretty dark-haired waitress who had been so attentive earlier, he noticed a newspaper lying folded next to the empty plate of the truckdriver who had left a short while before. Tom idly picked it up and unfolded it while Angela hurriedly filled his cup and moved back down the counter with a guilty glance at the manager. It was a local paper, the top story describing a fight at the city council meeting where several members shouted profanities at each other. Tom shook his head and moved on to the bottom of the page. "Radisson Returns for Hometown Wedding" the headline proclaimed over a paparazzi-type photo of a couple getting into a limousine. The man was in his late 40s, his hair just starting to gray about the temples, elegantly trim in a black tuxedo. The photographer caught him by surprise, but his companion was quicker. Hand upraised to block the camera and her body twisting away, her features were blurred and nearly concealed.
Tom drew in a sharp breath and held the paper closer, trying to make out the features of the woman in the photo. He laughed weakly, silently chiding himself for letting his imagination get away from him. Was he going to see Alyson everywhere he looked for the rest of his life? Yet, in spite of the shoulder-length blond hair, he could swear that the woman in the picture was Alyson. No matter how obscured, those features were indelible from his mind. How could they not be, when he had loved her so deeply, then hated her for her deception and betrayal? Taking a breath to steady himself, he read the short caption next to the photograph: "James B. Radisson, CEO and chief shareholder of Radisson Aviation, the nation�s fourth largest defense contractor, has returned home for his wedding to Serena Mueller. Radisson Aviation is currently involved in negotiations with an east-coast conglomerate trying to buy the corporation. See page 1 of the Business Section."
Tom leafed through the paper, searching for the business section. The article there was brief, but filled with detail. The conglomerate attempting to buy Radisson Aviation was headed by Henry W. Milton, director of a corporate empire that included HG Hemden, the nation�s seventh largest defense contractor. Gaining control of Radisson would move them up to third, breathing down the neck of the second leading contractor. Radisson so far had refused to sell, fending off a takeover bid in a heated stockholders� meeting. Milton had fallen far short in swinging the vote and lacked enough shares to force a sale. The immediate threat having been dealt with, Radisson had enough breathing space to return to his hometown to wed Serena Mueller, a native of Hartford, Connecticut, who had lived abroad for the last three years and met Radisson at a reception in London. Following the weekend wedding, the couple would honeymoon on Radisson�s private yacht, sailing to an undisclosed destination. Radisson and his top executives were reportedly working furiously at his local office to solidify his control of the company, but the CEO would take time away from his business affairs to host a garden party tomorrow night to introduce his fiancee to the local elite.
Tom got up and tossed a couple dollars on the counter. Carrying the paper with him, he left the diner.
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James Radisson looked up in frustration as the intercom beeped on his desk. Shoving an untidy stack of papers aside, he pressed a button and brusquely asked, "Yes? What is it?"
Martha replied, "I�m sorry to disturb you, Mr. Radisson, but there�s a gentleman here who says he has an appointment to see you. It�s not on your schedule, but he said you had agreed to see him. Ben Roberts of the Chronicle."
Radisson exclaimed, "Oh, hell! Yeah, he called this morning but I completely forgot about it. All right, send him in."
When Martha ushered Tom into his office, Radisson rose to shake Tom�s hand and affably greeted him. "As I explained earlier, Mr. Roberts, this is a very busy week for me. I can only spare you a few minutes."
"I understand that," Tom replied, smiling. "I appreciate your taking the time to see me. I�m writing an article on the attempted purchase of Radisson Aviation by Henry Milton�s conglomerate and there a few questions I�d like to ask you about it."
"I�ll answer what I can, but with the matter still unresolved, there is a strict limit on what I can discuss."
Tom went over the basic facts he�d read in the newspaper, augmented by what he had gleaned from other newspapers at the public library. Radisson merely nodded, confirming the bare bones account Tom had put together. �That�s all public record, Mr. Roberts. Surely you had more on your mind than that when you asked to see me."
"Why are you so determined not to sell?" Tom asked.
Radisson folded his hands on the desktop and leaned forward. "There are two answers to that question. The first is that this company has been in my family for 65 years. It was founded by my grandfather, who passed it on to my father, and if I should be fortunate enough to have a son, I intend to pass it on to him. We�ve always taken pride in designing and manufacturing quality products that we can be proud to associate our name with. This company matters very much to me and I will fight to hold on to it."
"The other answer is off the record. Understood?"
Tom nodded.
Radisson continued, "Henry W. Milton is a snake. The man�s ethically and morally corrupt. Among his holdings is a biochemical company that developed a toxin that somehow found its way to Iraq. His Cayman Island accounts are bloated with the graft he skims off of every deal his conglomerate is involved in. Even if Radisson Aviation was on the verge of going bankrupt, I wouldn�t sell to Henry Milton to save it."
"Now will that be all? I really do have a lot of work to do."
"How about some names and facts?" Tom asked. "I�ll keep you off the record, but you have to give me something to get started with in confirming what you�ve told me about Milton."
Radisson waved his hand in dismissal. "You�ll never prove it. He covers his tracks too well. But if you want to try, I�d forget about the graft and concentrate on Sandro Biochemicals. Look back to 1992 and a researcher named James Li."
Tom thanked him and jotted down the name and date. "You came back here to get married, didn�t you?"
"That�s right," Radisson replied. "It means a lot to my mother to have me come back to my home parish to get married. And while my work often keeps me away, I�ve always considered this city home."
"How did you meet your fiancee?"
"I was in London for an international conference of aviation executives. Friends had invited me to a reception at their castle. Serena came as a date of a London barrister, but she and I only had eyes for each other. He was really quite decent about it, taking it well when Serena left with me. We saw each other every night I was in England and by the end of the week, we were deeply in love. She�s a very special woman."
Tom worked the binding of the notebook in his fingers, looking down at the carpet as he searched for what to say. Finally, he lifted his head and looked Radisson in the eye, "You won�t want to hear this, but Serena Mueller is not who you think. Your life could be in danger if you marry her."
"What the hell are you talking about?" Radisson snorted. "Just what do you think you know about Serena?"
"If I told you how I know this, you wouldn�t believe me. You�d think I was crazy. But her name�s not Serena Mueller and she hasn�t been living abroad for years. She�s a very dangerous woman. Don�t marry her without checking her out."
"Good God, man! Do you think my aides haven�t done that already? I�m the CEO of a major defense contractor with top-secret contracts with the Pentagon! I need to know about anyone I get involved with. Everything she�s told me has checked out. Her family, education, residences-- it�s all there. You can check the records for yourself."
"No," Tom protested. "I mean, I believe what you say, but the records had to have been faked. I knew her for three years and her name wasn�t Serena Mueller."
"I�ve heard just about enough," Radisson snapped. "Whatever you�re trying to smear her with, her record�s clean; she has nothing to hide. In three days, I intend to marry Serena Mueller and we�re going to have a long, happy life together. Now get the hell out of my office!"
Tom rose to his feet. "I know you don�t believe me, but please, be careful. Your life is in danger."
Radisson pressed the intercom button, "Martha, call security!"
Tom stepped toward the door. "That won�t be necessary. I�m going."
The intercom still open, Radisson said, "You can hold off on that, Martha. Mr. Roberts is just leaving. Get me the editor of the Chronicle on the line."
Before closing the door behind him, Tom quietly intoned, "Don�t trust her, Radisson. Keep your eye on anyone who comes near her."
"Get out!" Radisson shouted. He balefully watched the door click shut. The telephone buzzed softly.
"Louis!" he snapped. "What the hell kind of reporters are you hiring nowadays? ... Ben Roberts! He just left my office. Let me tell you-- ... What do you mean, he�s been in the hospital for a week?"
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The blonde hair on the pillow beside him shimmered in the early morning light, bestowing an ethereal beauty on the sleeping woman. Radisson reached over to let a silky strand fall between his fingers, then gently traced the contour of her cheek with the back of his finger. Serena stirred and smiled herself into wakefulness.
"Good morning," he said. "I love watching you wake up."
"Beast!" she playfully replied. "You have years to get tired of it. You could have let me sleep for a little while longer. It�s going to be a long day."
"I couldn�t face going to the office without spending some time with you. Tonight at the party, we�ll barely have a moment alone."
"I�ll go make some coffee." She pulled a filmy robe over her deep-cut satin nightgown.
Radisson pulled her back down to sit beside him. "You keep forgetting, Serena. All I have to do is call and have breakfast sent up." He pulled the robe away from one shoulder and kissed the soft, white skin. "But then, there�s no hurry for that, is there?"
She gently pushed him away and rose from the bed. "I have a lot to do this morning to get ready for the party. I have to go over the plans with the caterer one more time, pick up my dress-- I can�t believe they�ve taken this long to finish the alterations. Don�t frown, darling. After the wedding, you�ll have me all to yourself for two weeks at sea."
He swallowed his disappointment and smiled. "I didn�t want you to have to do too much for this party. After all, it�s in your honor. We hired the best caterer in town; she knows what to do."
"I just want everything to be perfect for you, darling," Serena said. "You�ve told me how important it is for you to be on good terms with the people in your hometown. I just hope they approve of me. I want you to be proud of me."
"You just be your usual beautiful, intelligent, charming self and they can�t help but love you. And if they don�t, the hell with them. You�re the best thing that�s ever happened to me. I love you, Serena, and I always will."
"In a few days, I�ll be asking you to put that on the record," she teased. "For better or for worse, till death do we part."
"I�d do that tonight to keep you from getting away," he exclaimed, "but my mother would kill me if I wasn�t married in St. Patrick�s. Heck, we have everything we need. Judge Dumbarton�s one of the guests, the buffet�s all arranged, and the Chronicle�s sending a photographer."
Serena�s face froze. "You didn�t tell me you invited the press. I thought this was going to be a private party."
"Serena," he coaxed. "They�ll just be here for a short while. It will help the company�s image for the town to see us pictured with the local elite. It will make us seem more part of this city if they see us pictured with people they know."
"You should have told me," she insisted. "I hate the thought of having a bunch of vultures at our garden party."
"Serena, I never did understand why such a beautiful woman hates to have her picture taken."
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A five-piece chamber ensemble warmed up on the patio behind the house as the caterers unpacked champagne glasses. Wearing a short, white jacket, Tom was scarcely noticed as he walked past them into the house. Pausing for a moment, he listened for voices, hearing three women cheerfully conversing in Spanish through the doorway he took to be the kitchen�s. They chattered on, unaware of his presence. Tom softly climbed the long stairway ahead of him, taking the stairs two at a time. He cautiously pushed open the door to the right of the stairs. A guest room, he guessed, prettily decorated in chintz but lacking the personal touches that make a room look lived in. Facing it was another guest room, this one decorated in a more masculine style with heavy mahogany furniture and flocked teal wallpaper.
Tom traversed the hallway paralleling the stairwell to a pair of sliding French doors curtained in lace-trimmed peach silk. This had to be the master bedroom. He slowly and quietly slid one door open. A woman stood with her back to him in front of a mirrored dressing table, admiring the way the tight black dress hugged the curves of her body as she donned a pair of pendant earrings shimmering with diamonds. Tom grabbed the doorframe to steady himself. He hadn�t been wrong. She looked oddly different with blond hair, but there was no question but that it was Alyson.
He must have made a sound when he grabbed for the doorframe, because suddenly her eyes met his in the mirror. She spun about, hissing in surprise, "You! What are you doing here?"
Tom forced himself to still the quaver in his voice, scorning himself for the power she still held over him. "I came to pay my respects to the soon-to-be Mrs. Radisson. But isn�t it customary to divorce the first husband before remarrying?"
"You have to get out of here," she said frantically. "If they find out you�re here, we�d both be in danger. Please, Tom, go before someone sees you."
"I�ll go, but first tell me what�s going on," Tom demanded. "What are you up to, Alyson? What do you want from James Radisson?"
"Nothing," she pleaded. "I�m not up to anything. Please, Tom, I just want to start a new life. I love James and I want to be his wife. I�ve left the organization; I have no part in any of that anymore. But if they see me with you, they�ll think I�ve betrayed them. You have every reason to hate me, but I never meant to hurt you."
She looked so sincere and vulnerable that Tom almost softened. But the memory of the last time they were together, her coldness as she pointed a gun at him and demanded the negatives and the realization that she was never his wife cut through him and hardened his resolve. "Cut the act, Alyson," he ordered. "I�ve had plenty of opportunity to learn what an accomplished liar you are. Now out with it! What are you after this time?"
She sighed. "It would have been so much easier if you had just left, but you always did have to do things the hard way."
Before Tom could move, she grasped the neckline of her dress and tore it downwards, then screamed frantically for help. Tom made a motion towards her with thoughts of stifling her screams, but she darted backwards out of reach. He could already hear men running through the first-floor passageway. There was another corridor intersecting the main hallway. Could either one lead to stairs? He decided not to chance it, running past Alyson to the balcony off the master bedroom. No stairway here, just smooth white balustrade all around. He contemplated lowering himself over the rail and dropping to the ground below, but the height and flagstone surface below dissuaded him. He could see an exterior set of stairs at the far side of the house. His only chance was to make it back through the bedroom and down the corridor in that direction before Alyson�s rescuers arrived.
He tore through the bedroom and spun around the corner. "There�s the son-of-a-bitch!" someone shouted, and he was caught in a flying tackle from behind. He rose to his knees and tried to throw the man off, but three of them were on him, pummeling him with punches until they subdued him and pinioned his arms behind him. One of them pulled out a set of handcuffs and cuffed his hands behind him. Alyson wept noisily, demurely holding the torn dress to her shoulder.
"It was so awful," she sobbed. "He broke into my bedroom and tried to force me to do things... When I wouldn�t, he started to tear my clothes off."
The man who had handcuffed Tom looked at Alyson with sympathy. "Don�t worry, Miss Mueller. We�ll see to it that he can�t hurt you anymore."
"This is nonsense!" Tom protested. "I never touched her! We were just talking and suddenly she tore her dress and started screaming."
One of the men swung back his fist and punched Tom in the stomach, doubling him over and leaving him gasping for breath. "Shut up, you scum!" he menaced. "It�s only too clear what happened."
"Get him out of here," his superior motioned towards the stairs. After Tom was dragged from the room, the man gently put his arm around Alyson�s shoulders, asking, "Are you going to be all right, Miss Mueller? It was a terrible thing to happen. Do you want us to call your fiance?"
"No!" she exclaimed sharply. "Please, I don�t want to upset him. He has so much to worry about already."
With some relief, he said, "Very well. I�ll tell my men to keep this to themselves. And I promise, we�ll tighten up security so nothing like this happens again."
Sniffling a little, she smiled and thanked him, looking so fragile and stricken that anger coursed through him anew at the man who had attacked her.
Tom stood leaning slump-shouldered against the wall in the foyer under the eyes of the two security men eagerly watching for a reason to punch him again. Tom�s mind reeled, screaming with panic as he tried to think of some way, any way to clear himself. The truth certainly wouldn�t cut it: "Excuse me, but that�s my wife up there or at least, I thought it was my wife, and I came here to try to save Radisson from whatever she has planned for him." Oh, sure, they were likely to believe that. His ribs ached with the abuse he�d already taken tonight. He wasn�t ready for another beating.
The head of security entered the foyer and nodded toward Tom. "The police should be here in a few minutes. We want to keep this quiet, so take him to the side entrance. The trees are thick enough on that side that if anyone sees a police car pull in, they might think it�s just extra security for the party."
Tom tried once more. "You�re making a mistake. I never touched her."
He was roughly jerked toward the hallway, the cuffs cutting into his wrists. "Save it!" one of the men snapped. "Tell it to the police. We�ve heard enough out of you."
Just after they reached the side door, a black-and-white patrol car pulled into the drive. The officers looked at Tom with contempt as the security men turned him over. One opened the backdoor and grabbed Tom�s arm to put him in the car.
"I didn�t do anything," Tom protested. "She set me up."
One hand on Tom�s head, the officer forced him into the car with the other. "Yeah, tell us something we haven�t heard before. The jails are full of innocent men."
Tom fell silent, staring straight ahead as the car traveled through the streets. Oddly enough, instead of heading downtown as he expected, the houses seemed to be thinning out and soon they were passing through rolling parkland scattered with groves of trees.
"Where are you taking me?" he asked uneasily.
The driver replied, "You�ll find out when you get there. Now, why don�t you just sit back and relax. There�s nothing you can do about it anyway."
"The police station�s downtown!" Tom persisted. "What are we doing out here?"
Neither officer bothered to answer. They simply traded amused looks and drove on in silence.
Deeply alarmed, Tom wondered what kind of mess he had gotten himself into. His situation had looked grim enough when he left the house, expecting to be arrested and thrown in jail, with all evidence and sympathy on Alyson�s side. But if they weren�t headed to the police station, where were they taking him?
The car slowed at the entrance to a shrubbery-lined curved driveway. Tom had a quick glimpse of an engraved metal sign on a brick foundation: Norcross Psychiatric Facility.
"I�m not crazy!" he exclaimed. "Just take me downtown and I�ll confess to everything. You can�t just put me in here without a hearing. I haven�t even been charged yet."
The driver responded, "The lady�s not interested in pressing charges. She doesn�t want the scandal to ruin her wedding. But you�re a little too dangerous to leave out on the streets."
The car eased to a stop at the foot of a broad, shallow stairway. A doctor waited, flanked by two orderlies. Tom was pulled roughly from the car by an officer. The doctor looked Tom over with an impersonal glance and jotted a few notes on his clipboard. "Would you bring him inside, please?" his voice was soft, with traces of an Eastern European accent.
The police officers just behind, the orderlies close at hand, Tom had no choice but to follow the doctor into the hospital. The lobby was tiny, with only one stiffly padded sofa and a drooping fern in an oversize vase. Norcross didn�t appear to encourage visitors.
Past the lobby, the small party turned right, passing through a set of double doors unlocked by the doctor. They proceeded through a small anteroom to enter a room on the left side of the corridor marked "Admitting." One of the orderlies turned to the padded table against the wall and when he turned back, Tom�s mouth went dry as he recognized the straitjacket hanging over the man�s arm.
"You may remove the handcuffs now," the doctor told the officers. "We�ll take care of him from here."
An officer pulled his keys from his pocket, stepping behind Tom to unlock the first cuff. As it clicked free, Tom exploded into action, slamming his elbow backward into the man�s face. Grasping one orderly with both hands, he shoved him hard into the other, the two men overbalancing and falling heavily to the floor. The second officer pulled his gun from its holster, but before he could extend his arm, Tom kicked the weapon free. The officer swore at the pain from his crushed fingers but threw himself on top of Tom, who had stooped to reach for the gun of the first officer still dazed by Tom�s attack. The cop struggling with Tom managed to roll him over onto his back, pressing his forearm hard against his throat. His air slowly cut off, Tom fought to remain conscious as he strained to reach the fallen officer�s holster.
Finally, the gun was in his hand and he jerked it over to point it just inches away from the cop�s face. The pressure on his neck released as the officer jumped back and got to his feet. Tom rose to his knees, coughing as his lungs filled with air again. He moved the gun around in an arc, making sure to keep all five men in front of him.
"You!" he said to the doctor. "Get over here. Now!"
The doctor hesitated, looking to the officers for help. Their faces set with impotent fury, their eyes were locked on the gun in Tom�s hand, looking for a chance to subdue him. Seeing no other choice, the doctor slowly approached Tom.
"Don�t even think about it!" Tom shouted, swinging the gun in the direction of an orderly who had stealthily moved a step closer as Tom stood up. The man froze and Tom whirled back to cover the two cops.
"Please, put down the gun and I promise that no one will hurt you," the doctor said, his tones gentle and soothing. "There�s no reason to be frightened. We�re here to help you."
"I�ve seen the kind of help you give in these places," Tom snapped. "Come on, Doc. You�ve got the keys to get out of here. Let�s you and I take a trip to the front door."
Wrapping one arm around the doctor�s neck, he pressed the barrel of the gun
to the man�s jaw. Keeping the doctor between him and the officers, they backed
across the room.
"Please don�t do this," the doctor pleaded. "You�re a deeply disturbed man.
Let us help you."
Reaching the door, Tom quickly looked to each side. The corridor was clear. Pulling the doctor with him, he backed down the corridor, keeping his eye on the door to Admitting, but shooting quick glances behind him at the path to the double doors. They were nearly there, the doors just five feet away, when Tom felt a stabbing pain in his side. He tried to force his feet to continue to move towards the doors, but something was wrong. They refused to obey his orders and he lurched to one side, his vision blurring as he clumsily tried to grab the doctor�s arm when he jerked away. Another man was there, staying out of Tom�s reach. Tom�s eyes wouldn�t focus, but he realized the object in his hand must be a syringe. He fought off waves of vertigo, pressing his hands to his head, the sound of the gun hitting the floor echoing in deafening crescendos. His legs would no longer support him and he slowly crumpled to the floor.