Frank Klus - Azaleas Don't Bloom Here

Dr. Schmidt looked downcast. He had no idea she could know so much, realizing she had been right about everything.

“I also know that, at the request of my husband, I was removed from jail and given the treatment. I don’t truly understand why I was in jail, but I underwent treatment to remove pleasant memories of my original husband, Fernando Menendez, and convinced him to divorce me. Today, however, I have only bits and pieces of a life with him. Those bits and pieces, Dr. Schmidt, were of a loving man. Now, does that square with what you know?—AND DON’T PATRONIZE ME. I want the truth, and I’m not going home to Commandant Casimir. I want out of here. I want to go to New America.”

Dr. Schmidt looked down again, frowning. Then he nodded in agreement. “All you have said is true, but getting out of here is impossible. They’ll catch us, and then things will be worse.”

“I have an idea. There is a woman, Pamela Piper, who has been taking persecuted people to New America. I don’t know anything about her except she can get people out of the United States for a fee of twenty-five thousand dollars, and I think, with your help, we can find her.” She paused and looked at Schmidt.

“She is the sister of Redd Piper,” he said. “He’s the founder of New America. I’m sorry, but I don’t know where she is.”

“Please, Dr. Schmidt. You know more than you’re admitting. Tell me what you know about her. Any information could help us get in contact with her.”

“She’s escorting a man out of the country to New America. The whole Squad, not to mention the RAC, is looking for them. If that’s not bad enough, a motorcycle gang called the Hogs is looking for them as well. They’re ex-Blue Squaders, the squad’s best. There is, I’ve heard, a million dollar bounty on her and her company.” Sandy gasped.

“It gets worse, though, I’m afraid. She’s been relying on help from a government informer—a Senator Moore. He’s been kidnapped and is being held in a secure location, waiting for treatment. I know the doctor who’s going to do the treatment.”

“Is he in Hell House?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know where this place—Hell House—is?”

“Yes.”

“Then, if we can get him out of there, he can contact Mrs. Piper, right?”

“Even if I could rescue that senator, the phone he uses to contact Pamela Piper is useless now.”

“What do you mean?”

“They already called her. Not being very experienced, they blurted out the fact that they got her location.”

“Then you know where she is?”

“That senator would know where she was.”

Sandra looked confused.

“You see, they coerced the senator into giving his kidnappers the use of his private phone. Someone used it to call her and let out that they know exactly where she’s at.”

“Still, if we can rescue that senator he could get in contact with her.”

“She might not answer.”

“She might. We need her help—you as much as I.”

Schmidt gulped, and looked to be deep in thought. He took a deep breath and shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“Look, I know you have money, and you have a lot of it—what was that figure? Oh, yes a million dollars, wasn’t it?”

Schmidt looked gobsmacked. “Are you suggesting we hire somebody to kidnap Moore and bring him to us?”

“You said you know where he’s being held, right?”

“Yes.”

“Are you known there?”

Schmidt nodded. “I could get in.”

“That money you have would buy a lot of favors wouldn’t it?”

He thought a moment and then nodded. “Do you have a place to go?”

“No.”

“You can stay at my place. I’ll give you my key, and I’ll have someone drive you there. You’ll be safe until I can figure out what to do.”

“Thank you.”

Less than an hour later, Schmidt and Grifton were on their way to Alt House. “Fred, do you understand why we’re doing this?”

“You want me to treat Moore.”

“No. I need you to concentrate. This is very important. I’m going to say I am going to do a brain analysis of Moore because time is of the essence, and we can’t wait for the other doctor to get here. But it’s just a ruse, Fred. We’re going to rescue Moore. The word will go out anytime now that he is to be killed. They don’t trust the machine anymore, and if they don’t trust the machine, they don’t trust us. We must all get out now.”

Grifton looked perplexed. “Not trust the brain probe?”

“This is what I told you at the Institute. People are dreaming about the clinic. When they wake up they reflect on their dreams. When they do this—”

“Yes, yes I know—retrocognition.”

“They’re remembering, Fred. Sandra Casimir has already figured it out. The press is talking about it. NOGOV will pressure them to shut up, but independents will continue talking about it over the internet. NOGOV will shut down the program and kill all those connected with it; then clamp down on the news. When that’s done, they’ll start a reverse-news campaign to spread misinformation, calling all those who talk about torture chambers by the government, crackpots and conspiracy nuts. It may take them awhile, but they’ll succeed. We may not have more than a day or two before the Squad, under NOGOV orders, comes after us.”

There was silence for a few minutes, and then Grifton spoke up. “I know how we can fix the remembering problem.”

“Sedratol,” Schmidt said.

“Yes, I told you about it.”

“I know, Fred, but it doesn’t help us now. They’re already remembering. Remember Hayfield? His clients are starting to remember. Now he wants his money back, and wants to sue us for millions. NOGOV will never allow something like this to go to court. They’ll hunt him down, scare the bejesus out of him, and if that doesn’t do any good, they’ll kill him.”

Grifton looked confused.

“Fred, I need you to concentrate.” He repeated the plan. “You know what to do now when we get there?”

Grifton still appeared confused; Schmidt went over the plan again, and Grifton was made to repeat it. He got parts of it wrong. Schmidt corrected him. He repeated the plan one more time, and quizzed Grifton about it. This time he got it right; just as they reached Alt House.

Schmidt knocked on the door. A guard opened the spy hole, saw them, and then opened the door. “Dr. Schmidt and Dr. Grifton. I wasn’t expecting you.”

“Sorry no one let you know we were coming, but Dr. McCardell will be delayed another day. A brain analysis needs to be done right away.”

“Oh, good. Come right in.”

“How many guards are here?” Schmidt asked.

“Just me and Jesus.”

“Good. Once we start the treatment Casimir will order more security.”

“Oh, yeah. They already worked out the plans.”

“Let’s go downstairs and get Moore. I want to get started right away.”

“Yes, Doctor.”

Grifton stayed up and engaged the other guard in conversation while Schmidt and the first guard went to the basement. The guard unlocked the cell, and took Moore over to the metal chair.

“Secure his arms, guard.” He did so as Schmidt shot him.

Upstairs, the other guard was startled. “Homer?” As Jesus started for the stairs, Grifton then shot him. A startled Everson Moore yelled. Schmidt assured him he was here to rescue him, and then released his shackles.

“The phone,” Moore said. Schmidt grabbed it, hurried him upstairs, and the three got in Schmidt’s Dodge Durango. They sped off for Schmidt’s home.

“Sandy,” Schmidt said, “this is Dr. Grifton, the inventor of the brain probe, and this is Senator Everson Moore. We won’t have much time. We killed two guards in the rescue of Moore. It will take the Squad time to figure out who did it, so we have to make the best use of it to figure out how to meet up with Pamela Piper.”