The Traveler

by John Katzenbach

“Five minutes. Five hours. Five days. It makes no difference.”

  She nodded, thinking that he was right.

  “Can I ask questions now?”

  “Yes. This would be a good time.”

  “Are you going to kill me?” she asked. As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she regretted them.

  “Not unless you make me,” he replied. “You see, that hasn’t changed. You still control your fate.”

  She did not believe that.

  “Why are you doing these things to me? I don’t understand.”

  “I have a job for you and I need to be certain that you will do it. I need to be confident in you. Comfortable, too.”

  “I’ll do whatever you want. Just ask . . .”

  “No,” he said. “Thank you for your offer, but I need to know beyond your verbal assurance. You have to know the length of my reach. You need to know just how close you are to death.”

  He stood up and untied her hands from the bedstand, retying them together in front of her.

  “I have to go out now. I will be back shortly. I don’t have to remind you what is required of you.”

  He stepped away and started toward the door.

  “Please,” she said. “Don’t leave me alone.” She was surprised at the sound of her voice, and more surprised at the words that had blurted out.

  “I’ll be back shortly,” he said. “You’ll be fine.”

  She cried again as he went through the door. She saw a brief moment of darkness outdoors and she thought: It must still be night.

  Alone in the room, she looked about her. Everything was as it had been earlier, but, with the man absent, it suddenly seemed more frightening to her. She shivered. She thought: This is crazy. He’s the one doing these things to you. Then she grew more afraid, thinking, He didn’t lock the door. Anyone could break in here and find me. She was suddenly scared that someone else would come in and rape her and it would be for nothing; it would anger the man, he would think of her as damaged goods and dispense with her like so much trash. She kept arguing inwardly, warring between two selves, one screaming at her for the wrongheadedness of her thoughts. He’s the one! Get the gun! Kill him! Now’s your chance!

  But she remained rooted where she was.

  Untie yourself! she heard herself say. Run!

  Run where?

  Where am I? Where can I go?

  He’ll kill me, she thought. He hasn’t yet, but he will if I try to run. He’s right outside the door, waiting. I won’t make it ten feet.

  No, run! Don’t run!

  She cried again to herself and tried to think of school, her family, her friends, her life. But they seemed terrifically distant, ephemeral. The only thing that is real, she thought, is this room.

  She tried to comfort herself and found herself singing softly a memory from childhood: “Lavender’s blue, dilly, dilly, lavender’s green; When I am king, dilly, dilly, you shall be queen . . .” She remembered how she would sing the song to her younger brother and he would fall asleep. She felt tears welling up inside her. But he’s dead, she thought. Oh, God, he died.

  She put her head down on the pillow and waited for the man to return. She tried to make her mind a blank, but thoughts and fears kept intruding. She realized that she could no longer gauge time as it flowed around her, as if the man had somehow eliminated her ability to measure the moments that passed. Had he been gone an hour? Or five minutes? The silence around her was pervasive, the darkness, angry and threatening. She forced herself to listen for the noise of his returning, but she could pick no recognizable sound out of the blackness of the room. She raised her hands and covered her eyes, squeezing her eyelids tightly shut, thinking that she could at least retreat into her own darkness and perhaps find something solid there to hold on to. She tried again to think of something small, routine, and common, some item she owned that spoke of her existence, some memory that would remind her of her past and give her something concrete on which to struggle for her future. She thought of her parents back home in Colorado, but they seemed suddenly ghostlike. She forced herself to concentrate on her mother’s face; in her mind’s eye she built the features as one would paint a portrait. She fixed in her head the eyes, the mouth, the smile that should have been so familiar. Then she wondered whether the memory was all a dream, and she slowly opened her eyes.

  She started suddenly, gasping.

  The man was hovering over her.

  “I didn’t hear you come in,” she said.

  She saw his face set. He simply stared hard at her for a moment. “This is reality now,” he said. Then he struck her with his open hand, hard. “Do you believe?”

  “Yes, please,” she replied.

  He hit her again. She felt her body cloud with pain.

  “Do you want to live?”

  He hit her. She nodded furiously.

  “I don’t believe you,” he said.

  He hit her a third time.

  “Yes, yes,” she pleaded.

  A fourth blow slapped her face.

  Then a fifth, sixth, and seventh, in rapid succession, until the man was raining blows, using both hands, as if stoking the fire of her hysteria. She tried sobbing out “please” in the seconds between the blows, but finally, as his fists flew out of the darkness at her, she quit, raising her bound hands in supplication, letting her tears speak for her. He stopped only when he finally grew short of breath from exertion.

  He sat on the side of the bed, resting as she cried quietly to herself. He spoke after a few seconds, his voice seeming distant, coming from some place far on the other side of her pain and tears.

  “You frustrate me,” he said.

  She felt his hands on her pants and suddenly he pulled them down, as he had before, exposing her.

  “Are you listening to me?” he asked.

  “Yes, yes,” she said, opening her eyes and looking up at him. She saw he had the revolver in his hand.

  “You’re too much of a problem,” he said, in his solid, matter-of-fact tone. “I had hopes for you. But I see you won’t learn. So I’m just going to fuck you and kill you, which is what I should have done in the first place.”

  The words crashed through her agony and she rushed from her isolation to the moment. “Please, no, no, no, no, no, I’ll do anything, give me a chance, just tell me what you want, what you need, I’ll do anything, please, please, whatever you want, anything, please, no, no, no, please, please, give a chance again, I won’t be bad, I’ll do what it is, anything, you just say it, please, I didn’t realize, please anything, anything, anything . . .”

  He stood by the bed, sighting down the pistol at her.

  “Oh, God, please, please,” she sobbed. She wanted to think of something different, to spend her last moment somewhere else, but all she could see was the terrifying barrel of the gun. She moaned as the seconds passed.

  “Anything?” he finally asked.

  “Oh, yes, yes, yes, please, anything . . .”

  “All right,” he said. “We’ll see.”

  He stepped out of her sight for a moment, then returned. He was holding the electric stun-gun. He put it into her hand. “Hurt yourself,” he said. He pointed to her crotch. “Right there.”

  It seemed to her then, suddenly, that all the pains she had endured to that point were insignificant. Her mind flooded with terror. She felt it choking her, as if, finally, all the things he’d done to her had fallen on her at once. But in the midst of this jumble of agony, she had one clear thought: Don’t hesitate, she said to herself.

  And she plunged the gun down against herself, trying in the same flashing instant to harden herself against the pain she knew was letting loose within her.

  But there was none.

  She looked up in confusion.

  “Di
sconnected,” he said.

  He took the gun from her hand.

  “A reprieve,” he said. He laughed. “From the Tsar.”

  She started to cry for what seemed to her to be the millionth time in the past few minutes.

  “There’s hope for you.”

  He waited a second.

  “I mean that literally.”

  He stepped back into the shadows and let her cry on unchecked.

  Anne Hampton’s first thought upon completing her tears was that something had changed. She was unsure precisely what it was, but she felt like some climber who had slipped on the glacier ice and spun wildly down into a crevasse until abruptly checked by a safety rope. She had the distinct sensation that she was spinning like a spent yo-yo on the end of a tether, aware that she was still in peril but safe for the moment. For the first time she allowed herself the thought that through compliance she might have a chance to live. She tried to picture herself, but could not. She remembered that she had had dreams and aspirations once, but she could no longer recall what they were. She allowed herself the recognition that she might be able to recollect them someday and in the same thought resolved to do whatever was required to remain alive. She looked up and saw the man staring at her face. He nodded as if signaling her that she was correct.

  “We won’t need these for a while, will we?” he said.

  He undid the lines that had trapped her to the bed.

  “Take off your clothes,” he said.

  She complied. She felt nothing as he searched up and down her body.

  “Why don’t you take a shower. You’ll feel better,” he said.

  She nodded and started hesitantly toward the bathroom. When she reached the door, she turned back to look at the man, but he was sitting, absorbed, reading a road map in the dim light.

  Hot water cascaded over her, and she thought of nothing save the sensation of soapsuds and warmth. She had not realized how cold she’d been. For the first time her mind seemed refreshed, empty, and at ease. She glanced at the open window, but only to see wan gray dawn light slowly slicing away the darkness.

  She felt an odd sadness as she shut off the water, as if she had washed away something old and familiar. She dried quickly, wrapping one towel about her head in a turban, another around her midsection. She tried to hurry, but grew dizzy and had to grab the doorframe to steady herself. She saw the man look up. “Be careful,” he said. “Don’t slip. It’ll be some time before you get all your strength back.”

  She sat down on the bed.

  “It’s almost morning,” she said. “How long have I been here?”

  “Forever,” the man said. He stood and approached her. “Take this,” he said. He held out a pill and a cup of water.

  She started to ask what it was, then stopped herself. She swallowed the pill swiftly. He knew her thoughts.

  “Just painkiller. Codeine, actually. It’ll help you sleep.”

  “Thank you,” she replied. She glanced over at the map. “When are we leaving?”

  He smiled. “This evening. It is important that I get some rest as well.”

  “Of course,” she said. She lay down on the bed.

  He rummaged for a moment in the duffle bag that contained his weapons. He pulled out a pair of handcuffs. “These will be more comfortable than the ropes,” he said. “Sit up.” She complied. He cuffed one of her wrists, then fastened the other cuff to his own. “Lie down,” he said. She rested her head back. He put himself next to her.

  “Sweet dreams,” he said.

  Like spent lovers, they both reached out for sleep.

  Anne Hampton awakened to the sound of the shower running. She realized quickly that she was handcuffed to the bedstand again. She curled up, as best she could, into the fetal position and waited. The towel she had wrapped around her midsection was gone and she was naked. For a moment she wondered whether the man would rape her when he came out, but the thought swiftly faded from her mind, replaced with a dull acquiescence.

  She heard the shower stop and after a few moments the man emerged, drying himself. He was naked.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I had to take your towel. This is a cheap place; they’re stingy with the linen.”

  She waited.

  “No,” he said, after pausing. “Time to get a move on.”

  She nodded.

  “Good,” he said.

  She watched him pull on underwear, jeans, and a sweatshirt. She idly noted that he seemed extremely fit. He combed his hair swiftly, then sat on the edge of the bed and slipped on sweatsocks and running shoes. She waited for a command, as the man collected his things. She saw him thrust the stun-gun and the revolver into a small duffle bag. He pulled a small suitcase out from beneath the bed and she caught a glimpse of the seersucker jacket folded and put away.

  “Back in a minute,” he said. She watched him walk out the door. It was night. He returned in a moment. He carried a medium-sized red duffle bag that had several zippered compartments. “I’m sorry,” he said briskly, “but I had to guess at colors and sizes. But I’m usually pretty good at this sort of thing.” He uncuffed her completely and stood back, eyeing her.

  The duffle was filled with clothes. There were khakis, jeans, a pair of shorts, a windbreaker, a sweater, and a sweatshirt. There were also two silk blouses, one a bright floral design, and a matching skirt. There was also a silk dress with a designer label. In one compartment there was a tangle of undergarments, in another, stockings and socks.

  “Wear jeans,” the man said. “Or the khakis if you prefer.” He turned and handed her two shoe boxes. She did not see where he had been keeping them. There was a pair of dress sandals and a pair of running shoes. “Pack the dressy ones,” he said.

  He watched as she dressed.

  “You’re pretty,” he said when she stood before him.

  “Thank you,” she replied. It seemed to her that it was someone else’s voice that was speaking. She wondered for an odd moment who could have joined them, until realizing that it was herself.

  He handed her a paper bag with the name of a pharmacy on it. She opened it and saw toothbrush, toothpaste, some makeup, a pair of sunglasses and a box of Tampax. She picked up the blue box and stared at it oddly. A disquieting fear moved through her slowly, triggered somehow by the box.

  “I’m not having my . . .” She stopped.

  “But you might, before we’re finished,” he said.

  She wanted to cry then but realized she should not. Instead she bit her lip and nodded.

  “Straighten yourself up and then we’re going,” he said.

  She moved gingerly into the bathroom and started using the toiletries. First she brushed her teeth. Then she dabbed a bit of makeup on her face, trying to cover the bruises. He stood in the doorway, watching her.

  “They’ll fade in a day or so.”

  She said nothing.

  “Ready?”he asked.

  She nodded.

  “First use the toilet. We’re going to be on the road a while.”

  She wondered where her modesty had disappeared. Again she had the sensation that it was someone else that was sitting on the toilet as the man watched, not herself. Some child, perhaps.

  “Carry your own bag,” he said.

  She placed the toothbrush and other articles into one of the compartments. Then she hefted the bag up. It had a shoulder strap, which she placed over her arm. “I can carry something else,” she said.

  “Here. But be careful.”

  He handed her a battered photographer’s bag and held the door open for her.

  Anne Hampton stepped out into the night and felt the evening Florida warmth overtake her, crawling into her muscles and bones. She felt dizzy and hesitated. The man placed a hand on her shoulder and pointed her to
ward a dark-blue Chevrolet Camaro, parked in front of the small motel unit. She looked up for a moment and saw the sky filled with stars; she picked out the Big Dipper and the Little Dipper and then Orion. She felt a sudden warmth, as if she were somehow at the center of all the sky lights, her own brightness melding with theirs. She fastened on one star, one amidst the uncountable mass, suspended in the dark void of space, and thought to herself that she was that star and that it was her: alone, unconnected, hanging in the night.

  “Come along,” said the man. He had walked to the side of the car and was holding the door for her.

  She stepped to his side.

  “It’s a beautiful night,” she said.

  “It’s a beautiful night, Doug,” he corrected her.

  She looked at him quizzically.

  “Say it.”

  “It’s a beautiful night, Doug,” she said.

  “Good. Call me Doug.”

  “All right.”

  “It is my name. Douglas Jeffers.”

  “All right. All right, Doug. Douglas. Douglas.”

  He smiled. “I like that. Actually, I prefer Douglas to Doug, but you can use whichever you are comfortable with.”

  She must have looked odd, because he smiled and added, “It is my real name. It’s important for you to realize that I will not tell you any lies. No falsehoods. Everything will be the truth. Or what passes for it.”

  She nodded. She did not for one instant doubt him. She wondered idly why not, but then shook the thought loose from her imagination.

  “There is one problem,” Douglas Jeffers said. His voice had a sudden dark edge which frightened her.

  “No, no, no, no problems,” she said quickly.

  He looked up at the sky. She thought he seemed to be thinking hard.

  “I think you need a new name,” he said. “I don’t like your old one. It comes from before and you need something for now and from now on.”

  She nodded. She was suprised that she thought this a reasonable idea.

  He motioned to the car and she sat in her seat.

  “Seat belt,” he said.

  She complied.

  “You’re going to be a biographer,” he said.