Man of Wax (24 page)

Finally I said, “What do I do now?” It wasn’t the question I wanted to ask—though there were a thousand of them, so many I could hardly put them in order—but it sounded good once it was out of my mouth. I still couldn’t see very well, I had to constantly keep squinting, which probably suited the one-eyed man beside me just fine.
 

“I can’t tell you, Ben. Remember what I told you before, I’m not your Simon. Wish I was, though. This has turned out to be one hell of a game. Caesar said it might go down as an all-time classic.”
 

“Who ... who’s Caesar?”
 

The man produced a thin smile. “Don’t worry about that. Now it’s time for you to get going. So scat, Ben. Get the fuck out of here.”
 

I opened my door and started to get out but stopped when the man said my name again. He sounded irritated now, his voice not bringing across the grin that had been there seconds before. I turned, leaned down and poked my head in the sedan. He was glaring back at me.
 

“We save your ass when it’s in a real fucking pickle and you don’t even have the decency to thank us?”
 

“Thank you,” I said, barely even hearing myself, and shut the door. Stood back and waited until the sedan pulled away. I watched it for a couple long moments until it had disappeared from the parking lot—though I knew it wouldn’t go too far, that those three would continue on now as my escorts.
 

Up in the sky was the sound of an approaching plane. I looked up, spotted it there among the stars, and watched it for a while. At that moment it was better than doing anything else.

44

The cell phone vibrated the moment I started the Impala.
 

By then I’d already opened the driver’s and rear-side passenger doors to conceal me from whoever might be driving past as I took a long and satisfying piss. When I was done I got inside. On the passenger seat was a large sport’s bag containing underwear, jeans, T-shirts and a sweatshirt. Even a heavy jacket, much like the one I’d bought back in Wyoming, was stuffed inside the bag. I looked through it for only a few seconds before I realized just how cold it was in the car and turned it on to get the engine warming and the heat going.
 

When Simon called, I didn’t answer right away. I kept thinking about Carver, about what he’d told me. The words NO OUTLET flashed through my mind again and again. Was it really true? Would this all lead to the same and inevitable conclusion? Were Jen and Casey already dead? Maybe it was true and all I had left was the chance to save myself. Simon and whoever else had ensured me some time away from the police. Why not just take full advantage and disappear?
 

On its tenth vibration I punched the green button and said, “I want to talk to my family.”
 

“What, no hello?”
 

I was silent. I turned the knob for the heat to come on high but all that came from the vents was cold air.
 

“Come on, Ben,” Simon said, “you’re not even going to thank me for bailing you out of that cramped interview room? It’s a hell of a place to be for ten hours, especially when every man and woman in that building is convinced you’re a cop killer.”
 

“I already thanked my escort.”
 

“That’s great. Now thank me.”
 

I bit my lip, clenched my other hand into a fist. It was no big deal to say the words, but at the same time it was. Because even uttering them acknowledged the fact that I owed Simon something, that he had power over me. I’d said it to my one-eyed escort but that was because I was convinced that, had I refused, he would have killed me on the spot.
 

“I’m waiting, Ben.”
 

“Thank you,” I said, almost spat. I crunched up my face, wanted to smack the steering wheel.
 

“You’re welcome. We always look after our own. I understand that business with Carver Ellison wasn’t something you had any control over. I’m sure he told you one hell of a story though, didn’t he?”
 

Again I didn’t say anything. I’d spent close to ten hours in silence, and while that might have been no large feat, it sure as hell feels it while a cop is pressuring you to make the slightest sound.
 

“Well?” Simon said. “Didn’t he?”
 

I closed my eyes, took a deep breath. I was tired and hungry, and playing Simon’s game was just going to piss me off even more.
 

“Yes,” I said. “It was one hell of a story.”
 

“What did he tell you?”
 

“That I’m being—”
 

I paused. Opened my eyes, squinted to look around the car a little more closely now, just like I’d done driving out of Doyle. At the dash, the radio, the glove compartment, the dome light in the roof.
 

“Where is it? Where’s the camera?”
 

“Camera? You mean you think there’s just one?” Simon chuckled. “If you haven’t figured it out yet, Ben, there’s always a camera on you. Always. There was even one in the interview room. I’ll tell you, we got the most hits when you got in there. Word has certainly spread about the Man of Wax. Everyone wants to watch, and that’s not including those in the Inner Circle. Here’s a man that will very soon make national headlines, or at least your picture will, because that’s all the press has been given at the moment. Granted, it is a little blurry, but that doesn’t matter. They’re only working on speculation. Hell, they don’t even know your name. Nobody does. Did you know CNN is calling you the Anonymous Bomber? A little presumptuous, I’d say, but even Fox News and MSNBC are running with it. I only wonder what’s going to happen tomorrow when people from your hometown see that picture in the papers. Do you think they’ll recognize you? Do you think they’ll be surprised?”
 

“If this is so big, how did I get out of the police station without any trouble? There weren’t any news vans or anything waiting outside.”
 

“Of course not. Our agents requested someone they had locked in a holding cell to be shackled and have a coat placed over his head. They took him out the front. It was crazy. Reporters scrambling asking him questions. He was a good boy though, kept his head down and just continued on his way. Misdirection, Ben, that’s what it’s all about. The public falls for it every time.”
 

“Every time,” I murmured. The air coming from the vents had warmed considerably, yet somehow I still felt cold.
 

Simon said, “That’s right. Remember 9/11, what else happened that day? Of course you don’t. See: misdirection.”
 

I opened my mouth, started to repeat the word—I got as far as
mis
—but then fell silent. I didn’t even want to start with Simon, because I knew he would never stop. He was more than just voluble when he needed to be; he was garrulous through and through, so much so that I sometimes wondered if he would ever shut up. If anything that was his weak point, the one thing I could exploit.
 

“Simon.”
 

“Yes, Ben?”
 

“Who’s Caesar?”
 

There was a long pause on Simon’s end. “What are you talking about?”
 

“Caesar,” I said. “You wanted to know what Carver told me. He told me something about Caesar. Who is he?”
 

The pause on Simon’s end grew into a silence. I closed my eyes, took a breath. I was beginning to fear my bluff had backfired, that Simon had disconnected and was already approaching my wife and daughter with whatever tools he used to cut off body parts.
 

Then Simon chuckled and said, “Nice try, Ben. You had me going for a second, but someone else just brought it to my attention what Jerry said to you a few minutes ago. Fucking idiot. He’ll be dealt with later, you can trust me on that.”
 

Jerry, I thought, musing over that simple name. It reminded me that all these men and women had other identities, other lives. They probably had wives, husbands, girlfriends or boyfriends, children, a mortgage.
 

“Anyway,” Simon said, “enough of that. Check the glove compartment.”
 

I leaned forward, extending my hand ... but stopped.
 

“Go ahead, Ben,” Simon near-whispered. “Look what’s inside.”
 

I knew I had no choice, so I opened it.
 

Another leather wallet, no doubt crammed with hundreds of dollars. A pair of the same glasses that had been in the bathroom of the Paradise Motel, the same glasses Carver had first tried to take away from me in Reno, and which he’d succeeded to take away from me here in Chicago. The frames were thick and cold and I put them on at once, relishing the simple fact that now I could actually see. I didn’t even bother for a second to worry that others who wished to do so were linking over to another page so they could see things from my point of view. All I worried about was now, with my eyes adjusted to make out the slightest detail, I could see what else was in the glove compartment.
 

“No,” I said. “I’m not killing anyone.”
 

“It’s a little too late to start saying that now. You’ve already killed close to thirty-some people. And as far as the country is concerned you’ve also killed a cop. A man who had a wife pregnant with twins. Such a pity. But this is the stuff primetime media loves. This is what keeps viewers checking in. And what do you think is going to happen when they find out you managed to escape?”
 

“I managed”—I swallowed, still staring down at the gun in the glove compartment, the revolver which I was pretty sure had once rested in the glove compartment of the Dodge—“to escape?”
 

“Well, officially not yet, but soon. It’ll be embarrassing for the FBI, but embarrassing things have happened before. Now it’s up to you to decide just how things will turn out in the news. Are you going to disappear into the night, never to be heard from again? Maybe go back to your hometown and bomb your daughter’s preschool? Or is the FBI going to track you down? Is there going to be a shoot out that’s going to leave you dead? As always, the choice is up to you. But don’t worry—the press conference won’t be until tomorrow morning, so you have until then to decide. In the meantime, as far as everyone else in concerned, you’re still in FBI custody.”
 

I wanted to tell him to go fuck himself. I wanted to tell him to go to hell. I wanted to tell him to go eat shit. I wanted to break down and cry.
 

I asked, “Can I please speak to my family?”
 

“Hmm, I don’t know. As much as I’d like to do you that favor, things have not been going well. You had originally been coming to Chicago for a completely different purpose than what transpired. We had even promised a few loyal viewers you’d do something special. Now it seems that’s just not going to work out anymore. Your face is already plastered on every newspaper in the state. By tomorrow it will be in every newspaper in the country. Which makes your part in continuing the game much riskier than usual.”
 

“I just want to hear their voices. I just ... I want to know they’re okay.”
 

“They’re okay, Ben. You’re going to have to trust me on that. I mean, you and I have been through so much together already, haven’t we? What kind of relationship would we have if we didn’t have trust?”
 

“I’ll refuse to continue,” I said, and even when the words left my mouth I still wasn’t sure what I was saying, or why. I knew the risks involved. I knew what they had already threatened to do to Casey’s preschool. The Impala’s engine had fully warmed and the heat had become so hot that I turned it down to its lowest setting.
 

“I’m sorry,” Simon said, “but was that a threat?”
 

“From what I hear I’m making you guys lots of money. What did that one escort say to me? How Caesar said this game might turn out to be an all-time classic? Now all I’m asking is to speak to my wife and daughter, just once. You’re going to deny me that?”
 

“Yes, Ben, I am going to deny you that. I don’t let anybody tell me what to do, especially piece of shit players. You might like to think you’re in a position to negotiate, but what have I told you already? There’s no negotiating. Yeah, so maybe this game has caught a lot of people’s attention. That doesn’t mean shit. We could end your life in a second and nobody would care. Don’t you get that by now? They love watching people die. They love watching people tortured. If you want to fuck around and try to play hero then we’ll kill you and we’ll kill your wife and daughter. Probably rape them first a couple of times, put on a real good show, then kill them. After that it’s on to the next show. There’s always a new game, always a new player, so don’t think yourself special, Ben. You’re nobody. You’re just a Man of Wax. You couldn’t save Michelle Delaney in college, what makes you think you can save your family now?”
 

For the longest time I was silent. Even with the heat on low it was becoming too hot in the car. I stared out the windshield, wondering what was in the trunk. Knowing Simon, and from everything Carver had told me, there was no doubt in my mind that Jen and Casey were already dead. The little spark that had been keeping the flames of hope alive had just gone out. They were dead and they were probably in the trunk right now. If I were to get out and open it, I wouldn’t find a mannequin in there like before, but a real dead body. Two real dead bodies. Just as real as the dried blood would be.
 

“What’s wrong, Ben? Did I hurt your feelings? Do you want to cry?”
 

“Your viewers,” I said. “They ... they can’t hear you, can they? They can hear me but not you.”