Man of Wax (17 page)

I disconnected the phone and shoved it in my pocket, never breaking my stride as I headed back down the corridor. Behind me, the resident had started coughing again, and I wished I’d been told to visit that person instead. At least then I would have felt pity, I would have felt some compassion, unlike standing there with Phillip Fagerstrom and feeling nothing.
 

The redhead at the desk was still typing at her computer and smiled up at me as I passed. I wanted to stop and ask her why she didn’t check on the resident down the hall, the one I could almost see spitting up blood right this instant, but I just kept walking.
 

Downstairs, as I passed the welcome desk, the woman there asked how everything had gone.
 

“You weren’t up there long,” she said, concern obvious in her voice. “Everything okay?”
 

“He was sleeping,” I said, and told her I’d try back tomorrow. By then I figured I’d be at least another state away.
 

Then I wished her a good evening and headed for the exit. The sensors activated the doors and cold wind whipped at my face. I thought I heard the woman say something behind me but it was lost in the harsh October breeze and I continued toward my car, never once looking back.

32

I went back through town, heading north, until I reached 80 again. Then I headed east. I drove for close to two and a half hours before I decided to stop for the night at a Ramada. I checked in, went up to my room and fell into bed. I was still wearing the khakis and shirt, though I’d taken the tie off once I left Hickory View. I’d smoked most of the drive too, and my mouth felt raw.
 

The cell phone vibrated.
 

Lying with my face down, my eyes closed, I huffed. I rolled over, pulled the phone from my pocket, answered it.
 

Simon said, “Turn on the TV. The local news just started and there’s something you might be interested in seeing.”
 

He disconnected and I just lay there, the dead phone to my ear, wondering what the hell he wanted me to watch now. I remembered the last time he’d told me to turn on the television, how it had broadcasted the murder-suicide of Gerald and Juliet.
 

I thought of the briefcase. I remembered how heavy it had been.
 

I closed my eyes, murmured, “No, God, please no,” and quickly turned on the television facing the bed.
 

The local news had already begun. The newscaster looked very serious and somber as he stared back into the camera and reported tonight’s top story. Over his right shoulder there was live footage of a building on fire, a four-story brick building, with police cars and fire trucks surrounding it. At the bottom of the screen was the heading
UNEXPLAINED
EXPLOSION
and the newscaster was saying something about the town of Ryder, Illinois, about Hickory View, about close to thirty people confirmed dead, nearly fifty wounded, possibly even more.
 

With a shaking hand I raised the remote and turned off the TV. Sat in mind-numbing silence for a very long time. Eventually the cell phone began vibrating and I picked it up, not really sure why I was doing it just as I wasn’t sure what I was going to say. Then, almost at once, everything came together and I gritted my teeth.
 

“You fucking son of a bitch, I can’t believe you—”
 

“No, no, watch it there, Ben. I didn’t do anything. Remember, it was your choice. You could have killed that old man and taken the briefcase with you.
You
, Ben. Not me.”
 

I said nothing and just sat there, shaking, listening to the silence and the blood pounding in my ears. I continued staring at the blank television screen ... yet even though it was blank I was still seeing the live footage, and I remembered everything about the retirement home: the dry and bitter scent of disinfectant, the old woman behind the desk, the bowl of Hershey’s Kisses by the calendar, the redhead upstairs, and the resident who had been coughing and coughing and coughing. And of course the rest of them, all the others who’d been confined to their beds watching TV or sleeping, the ones put there to be forgotten by their families, by their children and grandchildren.
 

Staring at the blank television screen, thinking about all those innocent lives lost, I slowly shook my head. “No,” I whispered.
 

“No? No what?”
 

“I can’t ... I can’t do this anymore.”
 

Something changed in Simon’s voice. “What do you mean you can’t do this anymore? Don’t you love your wife and daughter? Don’t you want to save them?”
 

“Of course I do,” I said, almost snapped, “but those innocent people”—I was still shaking my head, still staring at the blank television screen and seeing it all—“they had nothing to do with anything.”
 

“So what are you saying? You’re quitting?” Simon chuckled. “You can’t quit now. You’re having so much fun.”
 

“Fuck you!” I shouted, my body still trembling, something churning in the pit of my stomach. “Fuck you and your fucking viewers. I’m done with this. I’m going to the police. I’m turning myself in. I’m going to tell them all about your—”
 

“Okay, Ben,” Simon said, his voice calm and neutral, “go ahead and quit. But Casey’s preschool? We’ll bomb it. And believe me, it’ll be a whole lot worse than Hickory View.”
 

I went silent. Just sitting there, my shoulders slouched, my body continuously shaking. Still staring at that blank screen, not seeing the footage of the retirement home anymore but imagining what the footage would look like of Casey’s preschool, that stucco-sided block of a building, the swings and slides outside, all as they burned to the ground.
 

“We’ll do it in the middle of the day. Right when the kids are napping. Or maybe we should do it earlier, during reading time? How many kids are there on a daily basis, Ben? Thirty? Forty? How much staff?”
 

Still I said nothing. My stomach was churning even more.
 

“I suggest you do yourself a favor and get some sleep.”
 

I closed my eyes. Saw all the kids inside that preschool, Casey there among them. I heard myself say, “I want to see my family.”
 

“Sorry, Ben. Can’t help you there.”
 

“Let me at least speak to them.”
 

“Um, no, I don’t think so.”
 

“Goddamn it!” I shot up and started toward the TV, caught myself an instant before I threw the phone right at the screen. In my ear, Simon was chuckling.
 

“You need sleep, my friend. It’s been a long day. Tomorrow is going to be even longer.”
 

Then he was gone and I was left standing there, tears in my eyes, shaking. The room began to spin. I took one step, another, my legs wobbly and unsure of themselves, and before I realized it I was rushing toward the bathroom, slamming into the door, falling on my knees before the toilet. And there I spent the next half hour, kneeling on those cold tiles as I sobbed, dry-heaving so much I thought I would never stop, dry-heaving to the point I was certain that any moment I would bring up what was left of my withered and despair-ridden soul.

33

I’d already been driving for close to an hour, headed down 80 and then up 55, getting closer and closer to Chicago, when the van came out of nowhere and struck the Taurus from behind.
 

It was close to ten o’clock—Simon had let me sleep in, giving me close to ten hours of much needed rest—and traffic wasn’t too heavy. Even though I couldn’t see the Chicago skyline yet, I could sense it, which made me think more and more about Jen, which made me think more and more about Casey, which made me realize just how much I hated Simon and whoever was watching me right now.
 

I’d just passed Bolingbrook and the 355 interchange when the van struck and the Taurus lurched forward and my head snapped back. I’d already been doing over sixty and the steering wheel jerked and I had to hold on tight to keep it steady, to keep the car from skidding off the highway. I checked my rearview mirror and saw a black utility van. It swung over into the left lane, passed me, swung back into my lane, and immediately hit its brakes.
 

I didn’t have time to think—I just stomped on the brake and swerved the wheel and closed my eyes and braced myself for the impact.
 

None came.
 

The phone in my pocket vibrated right as I opened my eyes. The utility van was stopped just a few feet ahead of me. We were in the right lane, the Taurus a little closer to the side of the highway as I’d swerved, and traffic was speeding by on the left, some people honking.
 

I answered the phone just as I put the car in park and undid my seatbelt. Simon was already shouting—“Don’t get out of the car! Keep driving!”—but by then I had the door open and my left foot was on the macadam, followed by my right foot, and I was standing, turning, listening to the traffic as it flew by on the highway, listening to the honking, wondering just what the hell had happened and not really even sure why I was getting out of the car in the first place. Simon continued shouting at me to get back in the car and I was listening but at the same time I was looking up at the two men approaching. One was black and one was white and at first I couldn’t place them—they looked familiar but at the same time they didn’t—and then before I knew it they were on me, grabbing my arms, one of them tearing the glasses off my face and throwing them aside, the black one taking the phone out of my hand and placing it to his ear and saying, “Game over, Simon,” before he disconnected the call.
 

“Hey,” I said, trying to fight the men as they dragged me toward the van and the side door which was open, “stop, don’t do this,” but the men ignored me and threw me into the van and climbed in after me and the black one said, “How long?” and the driver said, “Less than sixty seconds,” and the white one slid the door shut and shouted, “Go!”
 

The driver punched the gas, the van jerked forward, and an instant later we were speeding down the highway and I was in the back of the van with my two assistants, the same two assailants, I realized, who had attacked me back in Reno.
 

“What’s happening?” I asked, squinting at the two men, my back against the rear doors. “Who are you people?”
 

The black man tossed the phone to the other man now in the passenger seat. “Check it,” he said, then turned back to me. “You have a prescription, don’t you?”
 

I just stared back at him.
 

“We’ll get you a new pair of glasses at some point.” He nodded at the rear windows. “In the meantime if you’re interested, the show’s about to begin.”
 

“Who are you? What are you talking about? Why are you
doing
this?”
 

I was babbling, almost incoherently, afraid that what these men had just done would cost Jen and Casey their lives, that it would cost Casey’s fellow preschoolers their lives.

“My name’s Carver, Ben. My men and I are here to help you. And like I said, the show’s about to begin.”
 

At the sound of my name I paused. “How ... how do you know my name?”
 

The man in the passenger seat called back, “It’s clean.”
 

“Good,” Carver said. “Take out the battery and we’ll get it to the Kid later.” He looked at me again and said, “And to answer your question, Ben, it’s because my men and I have been watching you for the past five days.”
 

“The past five ...” I shook my head, trying to wrap my mind around everything this man was telling me. “My family—”
 

“Is dead,” Carver said, his voice suddenly somber. “I’m sorry to be the one to tell you that, but they’ve been dead from the beginning.”
 

I started shaking my head. “No. No, that can’t be.”
 

“Carver!” This was shouted from the driver. “Here they come.”
 

Still shaking my head, still trying to accept everything this man had just told me, I said, “Here who come?”
 

“Your escorts.”
 

“My ... what?”
 

“Just watch.”
 

He moved up beside me and peered out the left rear window. I squinted back at him, not sure what to say or do or even think, my entire body trembling at the idea that Jen and Casey might already be dead, but then curiosity got the better of me and I glanced out the right rear window.
 

The utility van was going fast—maybe eighty, ninety miles per hour—leaving most of the traffic in the dust. Except for one car, swerving in and out of all the rest, gaining on us.
 

“See them?” Carver asked. “They’ve been following you from the start of the game. They were the ones that stopped us back in Reno.”
 

I looked at him, remembering his words—
This is for your own good
—and then looked back out the window at the car. Without my glasses I could only see the car as a dark shape, but I could tell it was getting even closer, now less than one hundred yards away.
 

“Carver,” the driver warned, and Carver said, “I see him,” and I squinted even more to just make out the car’s passenger side window coming down and someone leaning out pointing a gun at us.
 

A hand touched my arm, pulling me away, and Carver said, “You might want to get down,” and immediately the window I’d been staring out spider webbed.