Arcane II (4 page)

I count three pairs of boots on the floor ahead of me. They all wear the same brand of black steel-toed, but I guess two are men by the shoe size. I look up as best I can. My head feels too big for my neck, like a melon fastened to a toothpick. All of them wear black, I guess for the raid. I can’t see clearly. Their faces are blurred like they’ve been fogged in for anonymity on the television. After a moment or two concentrating, I manage to focus enough to see that they’re wearing white masks. I tell myself not to worry.
If they’re certain to kill you they wouldn’t be worried about covering their faces.
But that doesn’t mean they’re not killing you.

I say a prayer for you to be with me. I feel the cool shift of air, your hand tracing circles over my head.

“What do you have to smile about?” A man’s voice. Gruff. I think it comes from the owner of the boots to my right.

“Answer him,” I hear you say, as if on the wind. It takes me a moment to respond, realizing that you’re speaking only to me, and gracing them only with silence.

“It’s just strange. I’d worried about this for so long. That you’d come kill or kidnap us. Now that it’s happened, it’s like a weight’s lifted.” I look up.
Hard to gauge reactions with them wearing those masks.

“Trust one of these mad bastards to be happy only once the worst has happened to them,” the other man says. “Your friends are dead. You’ve been captured. Captured by people that will torture you to find out what you know, which means your near future looks none too pretty, and here you are smiling away.”

I can feel your caress pass through me. Your voice sounds as clear in my head as anything said in the room. “I am with you. Stay strong with me, and any harm done to you will be revisited ten-fold upon your attackers.”

I stare ahead.
No use giving them any more than I have to.

“Not saying anything, eh?” The speaker leans down, smacks me across the left side of my face. It stings, but I can feel that he kept his hand open. He’s afraid of real damage. Not afraid of killing me, they shot the others, but he doesn’t want to hurt me so much that I can’t talk first.

I shake my head. “You said it yourself. You murdered my friends. What am I supposed to say to killers? Should I beg? Would that help?”

The one that slapped me kicks me hard in the shoulder with the steel of his boot. A sharp pain shoots out in all directions from the point of impact. For a moment, I think the arm might be separated. But I know that you’ll protect me.

The other man pulls him away. “Get off. If you hurt him too much, he can’t talk.” He takes my attacker out through the half-open door, leaving just the woman.

I hear your voice first. “They refer to this as ‘good cop, bad cop’. The one that struck you is former law enforcement. The one that they’ve left here is to gain your trust by being kind. Do not tell her about me yet, but you may begin to hint. Make her aware that you know things that are not possible for you to know. Perhaps about her. She is a journalist and the newest member of the group. We will begin with her.”

“Is there something I can do to make you more comfortable?” the woman asks, as if on cue.

“Some water would be nice. Do you normally get someone some water when you interview them?”

“Inter...” She pauses. “Our questioning techniques might differ.”

“You mean you have different techniques from the others, or just the cop? But you’re new,” I say. “Kidnapping. Murder. Must be different from journalism. I wonder what they’d think back at the paper.”

“How—”

One of the men comes back from the other room. I can’t tell which of them, with his mask on, and without him saying or doing something. You must sense my confusion. “This is not the policeman,” you say. “This one is an academic, a professor at USC. There is another that you haven’t seen. A psychiatrist. He will be the easiest to tackle. But this one we must be careful with. He knows more than the rest.”

The man whispers something in the woman’s ear.

“There’s something about him. He knows stuff about us,” I hear her whisper back to him.

“Where’s the other one?” I say loud enough to be heard in the other room, “You want to come back here and slap me again? Or how about a hair pull?”

I hear him yell from the next room, “Son of a bitch.”

He charges in. The other two each grab one of his arms by the shoulder. He skids to a stop just in front of me.

“Can I talk to you outside?” the professor says to him. Even with the masks on I can tell there’s some baggage between the cop and the others. I can hear the frustration in the professor’s voice.

I wait until they’re out of earshot. “I wonder what the other one thinks about this conflict within the group?”

“What other one?” the journalist says.

“The shrink. He must have an opinion. Or perhaps he’s just happy everyone’s sharing their feelings to his satisfaction.”

The two men return.

“He knows all about us,” the journalist says. I get the feeling she’s past caring whether I hear her or not.

“He doesn’t know shit,” the masked cop says.

“We don’t know that,” says the professor.

“Quiet now,” you say. “Divide et conquerum.”

For a second I see the hint of your smile, teeth white bright grinning in the dark corner of the room.

“I only know that you attacked us,” I say. “You’ve kept me alive. You say for information, but I don’t know about what. I assume eventually you’re looking for a ransom. But my family, what’s left of it, isn’t wealthy.”

The masks look at one another again. The cop speaks, “Now I know he knows something. He wouldn’t have bothered to float that lie otherwise.”

“I’ll get our friend,” the professor says, leaving me with the good and bad cops.

“You’re in for it now, whackjob,” the cop says.

“Oh? Up till now, I thought my day was going so well.”

The cop springs forward, his fist strikes the side of my head, pain explodes from my ear. The reporter drapes across his shoulders, trying to pull him back.

“Stop it,” she says. “Let the doc at him. He needs to talk.”

“Do you know what they did to Katie?” the cop shouts at her.

“Who’s Katie?” I ask. I say this to you, but the cop answers.

“Katie was my friend. The one you murdered. The one that you people tortured and dismembered.”

“Her name was Katie,” the journalist says, like she’s confirming something.

You fill me in, “Katie was found dead before the journalist joined their group. The journalist was investigating that case. It’s how she stumbled on the group, that’s why she joined.”

“I never murdered anyone,” I say. “You are the only killers I’ve ever met. I don’t even know this Katie. And it doesn’t seem right, your getting on the new girl’s case because you think she doesn’t measure up to your dead friend’s memory.”

“You son of a bitch.” He frees himself, and jumps back on me.

“They were unarmed, you bastard!” I scream. His fists land on my arms and torso. “What’s it like to kill women and the elderly?” A punch lands on my face, with all his weight behind it.

You take me away. For the moment. You take me to our private room, to be away from the pain.

“You’ve done well, child,” you say, grinning.

“I have you to thank.”

“They’re arguing now. The seeds of doubt are planted in the new one’s mind and when the psychiatrist comes in to question you, he’ll be displeased that the policeman has rendered you unconscious.”

“Shouldn’t I be there to see it?” I ask.

“I will return you soon enough. Just remember that you possess the power I’ve given you to ignore the pain.”

“What if they ask about their friend again? Katie?” I ask.

“The sacrifice? I accepted the offering. Absorbed her essence. The ritual was performed well. The body they found was but a husk. I would suggest steering the conversation away from that as best possible. Now, awaken.”

Returning to the room, it all looks blurry. It takes me a moment to realize I can only see out of my right eye.
The cop’s right-handed.

The cop and the journalist are in the other room. I can hear them fighting, though the door has been shut.

A man leans over me. I see your smile, looking over me over the man’s shoulder. He kneels down to look over the wounds the cop gave me, and you flash me that smile.

“You must be the shrink,” I say.

“I am sorry for the way you’ve been treated,” he says. He raises a glass of water for me to drink from. Salty.
My lip must be bleeding.

“I accept your apology,” I say. “Now if you don’t mind untying me, I’ll be on my way.”

He laughs, a patronizing, shrink’s laugh. “Perhaps in a little while. Once you’ve answered some of our questions. Let’s start with what you were doing at the beach.”

I wait a second, hoping you might have some advice, but I don’t want to give it away just yet by taking too long to answer. “I was there with my church group,” I say. “I don’t know why we were attacked. I don’t know why your group killed those people. But I won’t say anything. Honest. If you let me go, I won’t tell the police anything.”

“Be cautious,” you say. “You have done well at the end, but watch what you say about your purpose on the beach. He will deduce much from little hints. Deflect. Attack.”

The shrink writes some notes on a page on a clipboard. “Why were the kids with you? Were they part of the rite?”

“I don’t know. I assume the kids were the children of someone in the church. Sorry, it’s hard to think. I think your cop friend rung my bell pretty good.”

His pen scribbles something fast. “I want to let you go. Really. But I need you to be straight with me. We know you know those kids weren’t the sons and daughters of people in the church. You’ve been with the group too long, Bill. You must’ve known. And that’s why we think you also must’ve known what the rite was.”

“Rite? I don’t know. We were there to say some prayer to the setting sun and then wait for the moon.”

“Careful,” you say.

“You ever notice,” I say, interrupting his writing, “that the craziest person in any group is always the one that’s into psychology?”

“I’m a psychiatrist,” he says.

“Yeah you got the medical degree, but you know what I mean? When I was at college you could see it in any group of kids. The one with...”

“Problems with his father,” you say. “He graduated from UC Berkeley.”

“Daddy issues,” I continue. “Definitely a psych major. Still wets the bed, probably a psych major.”

“And you feel that you’ve seen that already in me?” he says.

“Well, I didn’t go to Berkeley, but I’ve always been a pretty astute observer.”

“Yes. You seem to know all about us, Bill. You, being an astute observer, must realize that fact makes it seem really unlikely that you weren’t aware of the cult’s activities. What are you laughing at?”

“You say ‘cult,’ I say ‘church.’ Tomato, tomato, let’s call the whole thing off.”

He laughs again, this time genuine. He shakes his head, the mask snaps back and forth. “Where was I?”

“That you think I know all about you,” I say.

“Yes. Hmm. You know that we know about you too?” he says. He opens a manila folder with pictures and notes. “Cal State Northridge, not Berkeley, and you didn’t graduate. Physics major. Dropped out following the death of your parents. Then you don’t resurface till a decade later when you start appearing in our surveillance of your little cult.”

“Nice pictures. But we didn’t take pictures of you. And they didn’t keep files on anyone at the church. Not that I know of, anyway,” I say.

“Then how do you know?”

“Maybe it’s like I say. I’m a keen observer. Maybe someone here’s told me.”

“Someone here. No. They’ve all been vetted.”

“Vetted? What? You think it’s the new one just ’cause she’s new? You’re as bad as the cop.”

He scribbles some notes.

“He has written ‘mole?’ A good start,” you say.

“What are you writing, Doc?”

“Just some notes,” he says.

“You ask me, you spend too much time nose down at that paper, Doc. You can lose yourself in that. Looking at your pad of paper, not an eye on your people or the way they react.”

He jumps, and I wonder if you’ve shown yourself to him. The way his head snaps around, maybe you’ve given him a glimmer, the movement of a shadow in the corner of his eye.

“I’m sorry. What did you say?”

“Your eyes, Doc. You need to watch people all the time. Trust what you’re seeing, not what your people are saying. See for yourself.” I can tell then that you’ve let him see something, but I can’t tell what. He looks hilarious, falling to his butt on the floor, sprawling like the tile’s made of ice. “You’d see better without your mask, Doc.”

He makes a noise like an animal. His hands tremble, reaching for his mask. He pulls it off his head. His hair goes every which way. Spittle dribbles down his chin. Another grunt, sounds like a donkey’s bray.

“C’mon, use your words, Doc,” I say. “You’re pretty young to be a shrink.” His hair hasn’t gone grey and he doesn’t wear glasses.

He laughs, and reaches with his right hand to wipe away the drool. The laughter continues. I know that laugh, know that you speak to him now.

“I am not that old. This is true.” He stands.

“Two of the others escaped,” you say. “This is why they’ve kept you alive. They’re afraid the others will succeed in performing the ritual.”

The door opens.

“Why’d you take your mask off?” the cop says.

I can see it. The way the doc takes his time in answering, he’s getting his answer from you. “I’m using a method of hypnosis to establish a rapport. Then I can be certain of what he knows or doesn’t know,” he says.

“Now he knows what you look like.”

“And what’s he going to do? Go to your old friends at the station? My picture’s not in any mug books. And the police aren’t about to believe him.”

“Can I talk to you outside?” the cop says.

They leave and you reappear.

“This goes better than I thought it would,” you say. “When they come back, play along with what the doctor says.”