Because I'm Watching (26 page)

Jacob didn't want to read the damned thing. Why would she think he would? Or should?

Deliberately he turned. He walked up the makeshift steps into his house. He passed the book—he did not care about it at all. He went into his bedroom and shut the door. He left the noise and the humanity behind and stepped into the embrace of his nightmares.

 

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Trouble was, Jacob had slept the night before. He crouched on the floor of his dark room, waiting for hell to find him, and hell remained determinedly elusive. When at last his cramped knees drove him out into the kitchen, it was evening, he was alone, and he was hungry. Hungry. Two weeks ago he hadn't cared about hunger or thirst. Now he was heating soup in the microwave on his counter.

When had a microwave appeared on his counter? He hoped the construction guys had brought it. If Wodzicki had sent it over, on principle Jacob would have to throw it into the yard.

Bowl in hand, he walked over to his sideways-listing recliner and stared across the street.

Maddie was nowhere in sight. Maybe her nightmares had remained elusive, too.

He prepared to sit. Those maggots had been pretty gross and—what the hell? He sprang to his feet, turned, and looked. That book was still on the seat of his chair. Damn it. Why hadn't one of the construction men taken it? It would save him the trouble of tossing it. Picking it up, he put it on the floor, reseated himself, and slurped his soup.

When he had finished, he put the bowl in the sink, came back, and tripped on the damned book. It was as heavy as a doorstop and twice as thick. Whatever else A. M. Hewitson was, he was also a windbag. Although he was brief enough on the title; it was called
Sacrifice!.

Jacob picked it up and leafed through it. He read the first sentence.

I was born in a whorehouse, and while I was still damp I was wrapped in rags and taken to the baby dealer, who sold me to priests for a ritual killing.

That was chilling. He started again.

I was born in a whorehouse, and while I was still damp I was wrapped in rags and taken to the baby dealer, who sold me to priests for a ritual killing. As you can see by the marks on my body, they succeeded in performing their ritual.

They were not so successful in killing me.

That was the first time I was helpless, at least briefly, at the hands of someone else.

Infant that I was, still I swore it would never happen again.

I was not so fortunate in keeping my vow …

Horror sucked Jacob in. He read until the light faded and he couldn't see the page. He went looking for a flashlight; he found a construction light with a hook and hung it on the open rafter over his chair. He kept reading until the small hours of the morning, when his eyes slammed shut and his chin hit his chest. Then he took the book into the bedroom—he no longer wanted the construction workers to remove it—and lay on the bed and slept. He expected to have nightmares. And he did. But the phantoms had changed. Dr. Kim no longer held sway; he was small and petty, foolish and cruel. A monster, but a lesser monster. Jacob's fear had morphed into something more than his usual helpless anguish; he now thirsted for revenge, fought for justice. He woke sweaty and afraid and yet … he took the book, went out into the daytime, and read.

Construction went on around him. Hammers. Air compressors. Swearing. Grunting. Welding. Lunch in the microwave. Questions he waved away.

Kids ran past. The garbage truck rumbled down the road. Neighbors waved. Police patrolled.

Jacob's eyes burned from overuse. He didn't care. He was enthralled. Transported.

When at last he finished, he looked up and realized the construction guys were gone, the neighbors had disappeared inside to eat dinner, and he was alone.

He shut the book and sat with his chest heaving, his heart racing, the breath caught in his throat. He stared at Maddie's house. It wasn't yet sunset, yet as he watched, the lights inside popped on one at a time until every room was brightly lit.

He hated this book. He
hated
it. And he had not been able to stop.

The story spoke to the dark corners of Jacob's soul, whispered of pain and false hope, shouted defiance and recognized
him
—his broken mind trapped in a life of desperate memories only death could end.

The story had proved two things.

One: the person who wrote this was a powerful, emotional writer who had stared terror in the face again and again.

And two: Maddie's worthless bastard of a brother claimed to write about helplessness, rebellion, unrelenting fear, and recovery. He was lying. Madeline Hewitson had written this.

This novel showed Jacob that he was not alone. At least one other human felt what he felt. The heroine of this book lived with guilt that parched her soul. Yet she had created life out of the desert. She bore scars, yet wore them proudly. She lived to honor her fallen dead.

He wanted, needed to talk to Maddie, to express his thanks for making him a part of the human race again. He stood, novel in hand, and walked to the edge of his makeshift porch—and there she was, looking up at him, dark hair disheveled, skinny legs sticking out of her shorts, T-shirt on crooked, eyes big and wide and wise.

She said, “You finished the book.”

“I did. You were watching me.”

“I was. What did you think?”

He was unprepared. He didn't know what to say. “It was good.”

“You liked it.”

“No. I … no.” He shuddered. “No.”

She watched him steadily.… Oh, God. She understood him.

“Why should I explain? Brandon told you everything about me.” All Jacob's secrets … shame, pain, guilt, terror. Knowing she was privy to his secrets felt like a hot knife to his gut.

She advanced up the steps, onto the porch. “No, he didn't. You arrived before he could tell me the good stuff.”

Jacob fell back like an army under siege. “The good stuff?”

“The stuff that drives you crazy. I don't know what was happening on your side of the glass. I don't know how you escaped, how you rescued your men.” Without invitation, she walked into his house. “But I want to.”

Mindlessly, he followed.

Maddie was only one person. But he feared her. He revered her. “You wrote this book.”

“I told you I did.”

She
had
told him. He hadn't believed her. Now he couldn't believe she had allowed her brother to appropriate her identity. “Why—”

“You know why.”

He did. She didn't have to explain. This book had proved she understood him. But he understood her, too. They shared similar experiences. They were alike. He pointed at the recliner. “Sit down.”

She did, perching on the edge and watching him.

“I've got stuff to eat,” he said.

“Sure. As long as it's not a sandwich, macaroni salad, or a cookie.” She pressed her hand to her stomach, then laughed at the look on his face. “I'd eat an apple.”

He opened the refrigerator and scrounged around. “I've got grapes.”

“Close enough.” The grapes would give her something to do with her hands—and he wanted to feed her, to fortify her for his confession.

It would not do for them both to fall apart.

He doused the grapes under the kitchen faucet, placed them on a paper towel, and carried them over. He presented them with a bow that put him on Maddie's eye level. When she met his gaze, he said, “Do you remember everything that Brandon told you about being captured by the North Koreans?”

“Yes.” She took the grapes. “The brainiacs you babysat took their hovercraft over the border. You went after them and you were all captured and kept at a research facility as guinea pigs.”

“Yes. Guinea pigs. We were that.” Jacob straightened. “Dr. Kim was an ophthalmologist, and he fancied himself a research scientist. He told me he had been waiting for the opportunity to try out his pet project, and we had thoughtfully provided him with his … yes. His guinea pigs. He kept us together for the first few days—I don't know how long, we had no windows, no natural light in our cell—so he could observe us, then he chose me as his subject. Because I was older, obviously the leader and, as he said, I had strength of will and a rigid moral code.”

She ate a grape. She ate another. When he had gone to so much trouble to pretend all was normal, it seemed the hospitable thing to do. “What was he trying to do?”

“He wanted to see if he could break a man's mind without the use of drugs or torture.” Jacob stopped, breathing hard. Then in a normal tone, he asked, “Do you want something to drink?”

“What?”
Why had he changed the subject, she meant.

But he said, “Usually the guys leave bottled iced tea and Cokes. Beer, sometimes. Bottled water. They tell me to help myself.”

“I … sure. Iced tea. Please.”

Jacob headed back to the kitchen and rummaged in the cooler. “What Dr. Kim did first was a fairly simple operation for cataracts.”

“You had cataracts?”

Jacob came back and loosened the lid. He offered the bottle. “No. My vision was perfect.”

She put the grapes on the arm of the chair, took the tea, and sipped. “Then what—”

“As he told me when they were tying me down, it was an outpatient procedure, one he had performed many times. All that needed to be done was to remove the lens from my eyes and replace them with a different lens.”

“To what purpose?”

“To make me blind.”

The grapes and the tea soured in her stomach; she put the cool bottle against her forehead and took a long breath. “I don't understand.”

“The good doctor inserted blackout lenses.” Jacob took a careful step back, as if standing close would contaminate her. “I was blind, staring into endless darkness.”

She wrote horror. She delved deep into pain, cruelty, indifference, and, yes, darkness. Yet not even in her most grotesque fantasies had she imagined this. Not this.

“After the surgery, while I was still under the influence of the tranquilizers, he explained his plan. One by one, he would take my kids to be tortured, and I would listen to their screams. I would listen to them beg. I would be unable to help them in any way. He understood how frustrated that would make me. How much I would hate him. That eventually the helplessness would tear at the fibers of my beliefs, my strengths, my being.” Jacob picked up the hem of his ratty T-shirt, ducked his head, and wiped his forehead. “He succeeded in every step of his plan.”

“Except the last one,” she said.

“Why do you say that?”

“Because you're here. You're alive. Your mind is recovering.”

Jacob turned his head and gazed at her, and his eyes looked as blind as they once had been. “Listen,” he said. “Listen to the whole story.”

She hoped it wouldn't get worse.

She knew that it would.

“Dr. Kim told me that when he was satisfied that my mind was pliable, he would fill it with a different reality.”

Moving slowly, as if a single abrupt gesture would overbalance them both, she rolled the bottle between her two hands. “What? How? How could he—”

“At first we were in a soundproof room. Not that I knew that. I was shackled to a chair. I did know that. There was a monitor into the torture chamber. Not that I could see it. But Dr. Kim could. He would sit behind me on my left side and speak into my ear. I heard the sounds of the torture and in that soft, soothing, gentle voice of his, he would describe the procedure, what they were doing to my kids. If I cried or flinched or begged that they torture me instead—and at the beginning, I did—he would get on the speaker and instruct his men on more brutal methods of torture.” Jacob plucked one of the grapes from the bunch at her elbow, tossed it in the air, caught it. Then, as hard as he could, he threw it out of the wrecked house. “I learned to remain absolutely silent, to show no reaction to the brutality being delivered on my kids.”

She offered her hand, palm up, a gesture of comfort.

In a clear, flat voice, he said, “No, Maddie.”

She nodded. She understood that sometimes the words had to come from a place lonely and hidden or the soul would wither.

“My kids starved. They lived in constant fear and cold and pain. But because I was the subject of Dr. Kim's experiment, his prize, he treated me like his prize poodle. I ate well. I dressed well. I bathed daily. When I tried to resist, to go on a hunger strike, Dr. Kim personally put a tube down my throat and force-fed me, and when the deed was done, he told me that the only result of my resistance was the knowledge that one of my brainiacs would die a horrible death, and that that death would be on my conscience forever.” As if he were still under Dr. Kim's command, Jacob stood absolutely still, his hands limp at his side. “It is. Joseph Waters Phillip's name is carved upon my soul.”

She wanted to tell him that wasn't true, that Dr. Kim was responsible for that death. But she understood survivor's guilt. She understood the responsibility Jacob felt. She understood the frustration of helplessness.

“When I had demonstrated a thorough grasp of my role—those were his words, ‘a thorough grasp of your role'—we changed rooms. I knew we had. I would feel the difference in the temperature and humidity—we were now in the basement—and I could hear the beeps and clicks of some machine behind. But I couldn't see and didn't realize that…” He faltered.

She remembered Brandon's story. “This was the room with the see-through glass?”

Jacob seemed relieved not to explain that. “Exactly. My kids, my brainiacs, had a good view of me. Day after day as they were tortured, I sat and displayed no reaction. At first they called my name, begged me for help. Then they cursed me, swore that someday in this life or the next, they would get their revenge. Then I did surmise that they could somehow see me.”