Escape From Hell
by
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Hot wind whipped against Robin’s face as he stared down into the black jungle from the helicopter. He was sitting on the chopper floor the way he always did, with his feet dangling above the strut. His arms were numb from exhaustion, and he was aware of the throbbing in his feet and excruciating pain in his spine. Suddenly, a fist dug deeply into his backbone; hard knuckles inflicted the agony that hurled him into the wind. The experience was so vivid it seemed like it was happening in slow motion. He bellowed loudly as the void swallowed him – his body plunging, whirling, and finally, landing. Invisible hands pulled at his combat boots and dragged his body through the oozing vortex of the muddy swamp. Robin awakened himself with his own cries mimicking the bleating of a frightened sheep. Birds were chirping outside! "Ah . . ." he breathed, conscious of the aroma of coffee, the soft blanket that enfolded him, and the silky pillow where his head lay in comfort. He detected the fragrance of fresh strawberries on the pillow, which lured his face more deeply into its softness. "Robin, you’re a lucky man," he whispered, grateful to be out of Luther Washington’s clutches. His newfound haven was suddenly interrupted as his sixth sense kicked in, alerting him that he was being watched. He heard the barely imperceptible intake of breath, and his heart pounded, the sound reverberating in his ears. Lifting heavy eyelids, he turned his head and saw Dreama’s solemn little face just a few feet away. She was sitting on the pillows where Katherine had sat last evening. Her hands were tucked into opposite sleeves of a pink, fuzzy robe turned backwards. Wriggling painted toes at him she drawled, "You were dreaming." Robin felt the pull of taut muscles in his neck. "What time is it?" He asked, pulling himself up to a half-sitting position. "Where’s your mother?" "Who cares what time it is? Mom’s at the office probably listening to some poor sap who runs around the house in his wife’s underwear." Robin laughed. "Where do you get such ideas, dream girl?" "Her regular Thursday morning appointment is with this skinny guy with tattoos on his wrists. The one on the right says RIGHT, and the one on the left says . . . are you ready for this? It says . . . WRONG." She giggled. "That’s Mr. Castro. He’s got a thing about peek-a-boo black lace. He gets off on black lace. I heard her tell Jess." "I bet you hear a lot, Miss Rabbit Ears," he said wrinkling his nose at her. "I know you’ve got coffee in there. Would you mind getting me some?" She snickered and bounced out of the room. Her energy made him feel ancient. A clock chimed from another part of the house. He counted 10 chimes, sank back on the pillow and massaged the nape of his neck wondering absently if Katherine was as good a masseuse as Ming? Was she as good at other things? He’d probably never know. The status of the relationship remained doctor/patient, when that wasn’t really his intention. When Katherine looked at him, did she see just another veteran with post-traumatic stress disorder? He closed his eyes and envisioned the way she looked last night. He could almost feel her nearness, her stroking movements and his response as he willed her hands lower, not daring to break the spell. How wonderful it was to have her so near, with her soft, smooth hands against his forehead, cheeks, and hair.
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About the Book
"I had to do it. Had I not made the decision to face it head-on and write about it, I would have surely found my way into hell by my own unrelenting hand," says author R. H. Doty. John Robin was the best man for the job, otherwise, why would the Secretary of the Army personally attend to the matter of having the ex-Green Beret pardoned and released from Leavenworth Federal Prison and returned to Vietnam? Robin accomplishes the clandestine mission targeting the American traitor, Luther, but not without great personal cost. The aftereffects of horror are never without cost. Yet, strangely, when one finds the courage to regress and weigh the reasons for the deed, a wonderful, rewarding glimmer of something joyous can and sometimes does appear unexpectedly among the folds. And so it happens with John Robin. The nightmares didn’t begin until some 10 years after the war ended. The multifaceted Robin blends elements of his past in detailed character study together with his present quest to find Luther’s parents hoping for solace and forgiveness. Emotional foundations intermingled with romance, drama and intrigue, bridge the culmination of events, revealing a surprising impact on Robin’s ability to forgive himself.
About the Author
This book was possible because of the tireless work of Emily Doty who is retired from the Department of Veterans Affairs. The book has become as much hers as ours because of her thinking, scrutinizing, writing and editing. I want to thank Dr. Des Shields, Garth Seegmiller, and Marco St. John for their encouragement. I also want to thank Mark Mitchell and Greg Cox for being "that special friend."