by John Altman
“Yes, I do.”
“If you’re not there to receive it, then the key will be placed through your mail slot. As I said, please begin using the car immediately. So that when it comes time to tape the commercial, you’ll be able to talk about driving it.”
“This is wonderful. So wonderful.”
“To be honest, this is the part of the job I enjoy most. Giving something back to the community.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“That’s all right,” he said. “Just as long as you’ve figured something out by the time we go to New York. And if you haven’t, maybe I can help you find the words.”
“Thank you, Mr. Atelier. God bless you.”
“Well,” he said. “God bless you. I’m looking forward to meeting in person, Ms. Lane.”
“Please—call me Miriam.”
“Miriam,” he said.
He gave her a telephone number to call in case she had questions, then mentioned that they had been having trouble with the line. If she was unable to get through, she might want to wait awhile and then try again.
After hanging up, he turned from the phone to face the travel plaza: a domed building of steel and glass, with magazine stands, fast food stalls, and coffee shops surrounding a tiled atrium. He crossed the dome with his head lowered, then moved through the parking lot. Before departing the rest area, he filled the Honda’s gas tank.
At 8:14 P.M. he got back on the highway, driving north for what would be the last time.
The overcast sky turned the road into a monochromatic ribbon. He put the Honda in the right lane, pegged the speed at fifty-five, then dialed the radio until he found a weather report. More rain on the horizon, the announcer said ruefully. The system was coming from the northwest and would arrive tonight, staying through the week. For the next few days it would be a tough slog, but by the weekend—
He snapped it off, satisfied.
He began to navigate the preliminary steps of his meditation ritual. He would not go too far, not behind the wheel; he would not put himself into a trance and risk piling the Honda into the surrounding traffic. But he would lay the groundwork, so that when the time came he would be able to achieve the necessary state.
At nine sharp the first drop of rain hit the windshield. He rolled up the window, switching on the wipers.
Once the idea had planted itself in Thomas Warren’s mind, he couldn’t get past it.
If he hadn’t been half asleep, he would have been able to bathe the idea in rational light. He would have dragged it out into the open sunshine, where it would shrivel and die. But here in the shadow realm, the idea held on. The thing they were chasing was just that—a thing.
He rolled over, muttering. He wanted to get up, back to the action to oversee the hunt. Without his guidance they would not apprehend the man, no matter how many satellites and reconnaissance planes, front-page articles and multistate manhunts. Because it wasn’t a man at all, he thought. Dressed in black, leaving knives in police officers’ throats, slipping through dragnets like water running through cracks. It was like nothing they ever had seen before. Not a man. An avatar.
His mind kept working, like a tongue poking at a loose tooth.
From the knife recovered in Central Park had come fingerprints. The fingerprints had not been on file with IAFIS in Clarksburg, nor with any foreign agencies to which they had access. Because the man was not a man …
Trying to sleep was pointless. The longer he lay here, the more the idea gained strength.
He went to find Hoyle, to ask if anything had come in. He found the agent in the kitchen, scraping yogurt from the bottom of a cup. Hoyle informed him that, as of five minutes ago, nothing was new.
Warren went back to the parlor studio. He returned his head to the pillow. Rest. Who knew when he would find another chance?
He drifted.
Once he had gone on a walk with his grandmother—his mother’s mother. She had lived in Georgia, on what once had been a plantation. As they walked, Warren noticed a strange creeping plant he had never seen before. It was ivy, but not ivy. And it was everywhere, climbing drainpipes and rock faces and the sides of barns with equal disregard.
Kudzu, his grandmother said. It’s a weed. You can’t get rid of it. It hangs on, Tommy.
Like the idea in his head. He tried to push it away; but it grew back immediately, hanging on. The man was not a man …
His phone was ringing.
He found it on an end table without switching on the light. “Warren.”
It was the specialist.
The specialist was telling him that Quinlan was gone.
A heavy silence followed the announcement. Did the man expect to be reprimanded for letting the interrogation go too far? Warren didn’t have the energy. He muttered something obliging and terminated the connection.
Then he stared into the darkness, thinking. Quinlan was gone. Another avenue closed. But it was all right. They didn’t need Quinlan. They would apprehend the man on their own. To escape now, he would need to vanish off the face of the earth.
Which he would.
Because he was not a man.
He turned his head to look at the clock. One minute past midnight. The first day of the new month, he realized. On the first day of a new month, it was good luck to say rabbit, rabbit before any other words passed one’s lips.
“Rabbit, rabbit,” he said to the darkness.
He pictured rabbits coming out of hats. Knives lodged in throats. Men who were not men, vanishing off the face of the earth. Abracadabra. Presto.
He sighed, pushing his head deeper into the pillow.
All night the rain had been playing a cat-and-mouse game with him. Now it picked up, whipping against the car in sheets.
He saw the exit looming in the headlights. After taking the ramp he drove for twenty miles along a rural route leading west, into black farmland. Tractors hulked on the tilled fields in prehistoric shapes. Lightning slashed the sky, freezing a million silver raindrops in mid-flight.
He pulled into a shaded coppice, then cut the ignition and the headlights. Night closed in to swallow him; rain turned the Honda into a thundering drum.
Mechanically he removed his disguise, returning the pieces to the bag and wiping the makeup from his cheeks, working by touch.
He left the car. A white ash was there, shivering in the storm. He would be able to find it again easily. He put the laptop behind the tree, then covered it with loose brush. The computer might become ruined by the rain. That would be all right, as long as the damage was severe enough that no clues could be recovered from the hard drive.
Back in the front seat, he interlocked his fingers and placed them on the nape of his neck, palms covering the ears. His thumbs applied gentle pressure to the base of his skull. He felt the beat of his pulse. He breathed shallowly, in and out, nine nines.
He placed his hands on his thighs. His upper body turned left, then right. Twenty-six times. The hands moved to his kidneys. He began to breathe more deeply, saturating his blood with oxygen. As his blood turned alkaline, his heartbeat slowed.
Part of his mind was visualizing escape routes. The primary route emphasized stealth; it avoided sensors entirely, minimizing proximity to guard patrols. The secondary route emphasized speed. If something went wrong, he would need to get off the compound grounds quickly …
… he wasn’t concentrating.
He emptied his lungs, refilled them. He was nothing—no body, no mind. He and the material world did not intersect.
He was a ghost wind, a stealer-in.
The storm cycled from drizzle to downpour and back again.
Ali Zattout hid the knife at 2:14 A.M.
Until now, Zattout’s food trays and all their contents had been collected immediately following his meals. This time, he had been left alone since the delivery of the dinner containing the nauseating agent. The tray had remained in the center of his floor, along with its plastic silverware and paper napk
ins. At nearly quarter past two—shortly after the bulb in his cell was switched on—he stirred on his cot. One hand fell loosely off the mattress, seemingly the result of a disturbed sleep. The hand moved across the floor. From behind the one-way mirror, Finney watched. The hand picked up the knife, concealing it behind the wrist, and casually slipped it below the mattress.
To all appearances, Zattout continued to sleep.
Finney looked over at Hawthorne. Hawthorne had seen it too.
“You see?” he said. “Give him half a chance and he’ll stab you in the back.”
Finney looked at the prisoner again: pale as window glass, curled on the bed with flecks of vomit speckling his filthy beard.
“With a plastic knife,” Finney remarked.
“If he gets that plastic knife in your eye, you’ll be sorry.”
“I wonder if he could manage it.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. Do you really want to find out?”
Finney thought about it.
He shook his head.
Hawthorne preceded him into the cell.
He pulled Zattout off the bed, applying a choke hold. Finney stepped forward, raising the syringe. Zattout cursed bitterly. He kicked; Finney dodged. He kicked again, sending the plastic dinner tray spinning against a wall. Then Hawthorne tightened the hold; Zattout flushed an acute shade of crimson.
Finney grabbed the man’s left arm. As he injected the sedative, Zattout wailed. When it was done, Hawthorne spun him viciously onto the floor. He and Finney retreated through the door.
Zattout was on his feet again immediately, facing the mirror.
He spat.
He punched the reinforced glass, right fist then left fist. He let out another hoarse cry, and punched again: right fist then left fist.
Finney and Hawthorne waited.
For two minutes the prisoner tantrumed, assaulting the glass, spewing epithets and howls. Over the following two minutes, both blows and cries weakened. Finally Zattout gave up. He moved in lost circles, muttering beneath his breath, eyes shifting from side to side. Presently he slumped down onto the floor. He stared at the one-way mirror with eyelids lowering to half-mast. His back was against the cot—very close, Finney noticed, to the place where he had hidden the knife.
Finney counted to thirty. He looked over at Hawthorne.
They went back into the cell. Hawthorne dug beneath the mattress and promptly found the plastic knife. “What’s this?” he asked, brandishing it in Zattout’s face. “What is this?”
Zattout grinned lethargically.
“Let me handle it,” Finney said.
Hawthorne didn’t back off. He held the knife, glowering.
“Let me handle it,” Finney said again. “Give us a minute.”
No reaction.
“I’ll be all right. Go on.”
Hawthorne gave Zattout a final glare. Then he turned, picked up the dinner tray, retrieved the plastic fork from a corner, and left.
Finney took a seat. Zattout remained slouched on the floor, still grinning stupidly.
An amateurish performance ensued. Slackness crept onto the prisoner’s face; the smile vanished. His eyelids fluttered dreamily. He exhaled a stertorous breath. His eyes drifted closed. They opened, flickering. Then closed again, as the man feigned unconsciousness.
“I know you can hear me,” Finney said.
Zattout’s head sagged, chin against chest.
“I’m here to give you one more chance. Cooperate voluntarily. Things will go better for you.”
From far away, through the forest and the house and the pantry and the staircase and the one-way mirror, came a low roll of thunder.
Finney inched forward on the chair. Zattout was faking—exaggerating the effects of the drugs. But was it because he hoped to avoid a conversation, when his defenses were down? Or did he still plan a last, desperate effort at escape? If the prisoner came for him, Finney would defend himself. Zattout was weakened; Hawthorne was just outside the door.
“Tell me something of value,” he said imploringly. “Something I can use.”
The smile crept back. “Kaffir,” Zattout muttered without opening his eyes.
“In English.”
“Infidel,” Zattout translated.
“This is your last chance. After this you won’t be able to call a halt, even if you decide to cooperate. Because you won’t be able to talk.”
“Khasioon.”
“Your head will be shaved. The electrodes require clean contact.”
“Whoremonger,” Zattout said.
“This doesn’t have to happen. We still can be civilized. The decision is yours.”
Zattout’s eyes opened.
“Go fuck yourself,” he said clearly.
Finney stood. He tugged his shirt straight, and left the cell.
The first reiter electroshock machine was commissioned in 1942 by a psychiatrist named Paul H. Wilcox.
The Cerletti-Bini alternating current device then in favor for electroconvulsive therapy administered a level of electricity far higher than was necessary to induce grand mal seizures in a patient. Dr. Wilcox theorized that ECT’s therapeutic effects could be achieved by administering a much smaller jolt. He found an electrical engineer named Reuben Reiter who was willing to build a machine to his specifications.
To be considered an effective treatment for schizophrenia or depression, a seizure needed to last twenty-five seconds. The original Reiter machine used a cumulative approach to create such a convulsion; the operator flicked a switch on and off during treatment, modulating the amount of current being delivered. Once an acceptable seizure occurred, no additional electricity was administered. To refine the procedure, a method was developed in which electrodes were placed on the subject’s head, allowing particular lobes of the brain to be targeted.
Introduced in 1943, the Wilcox/Reiter machine gained immediate acceptance. But in 1956, at the Second Divisional Meeting of the American Psychiatric Association, a doctor named David Impastato announced that clinicians who used ECT as a regular part of treatment had found that the Wilcox/Reiter machine produced an unsatisfactory change in their patients’ demeanor. The now-passé Cerletti-Bini AC device—which administered electricity at a much higher voltage—had, perhaps unsurprisingly, created more observable effects of docility and apathy in subjects.
The next year, Wilcox, Reiter, and Impastato joined forces to introduce a new model of the Reiter machine. The Molac II—the last ECT device ever produced in America—was the machine now resting on the table outside Zattout’s cell.
Like the Cerletti-Bini before it, the Molac II administered shocks at a much higher level than was necessary to create convulsions in the patient. An initial 190 volt current rendered the subject unconscious. Jolts of 100 volts followed, at the operator’s discretion. Unlike earlier machines, there was no failsafe to limit the length of the shock; it continued for as long as a black button was depressed.
Until his arrival at the farmhouse, Finney had not seen a specimen for over two decades. But the Molac II looked just the same as ever.
It was not torture, he thought.
No. It was worse. For Zattout could not agree to cooperate, once the treatment was under way, and put an end to it. He would be rendered unconscious by the first shock. Then the depatterning would commence.
Hawthorne stood beside Finney, watching.
Behind the one-way mirror Zattout sat motionless on the floor.
Finney reached for the doubloon inside his pocket. He squeezed it so tightly his hand cramped—
—and nodded.
PART THREE
15
Three A.M.
His eyes opened.
He started the engine.
He switched on the windshield wipers and drove to number sixty-two Sycamore Drive. He slipped the Honda’s key through the mail slot, moved to the Ford Escort, allowed himself entrance, opened the hood, and snapped the ignition wire.
In the backseat of the Honda he
raised the loose corner of upholstery. He unscrewed the bolts, pocketed them, and pulled the panel free.
The compartment looked small.
He strapped the bag across his chest, settling it into the hollow of his sternum. Then he reclined on the backseat, knees raised. Inhaled, forcing the belly out. Exhaled, drawing the navel to the spine. Six times, finding his center.
From the center he journeyed up. His presence weighed upon each rung of the ladder, pushing the vertebrae farther apart, opening and separating them as he went.
Tension lingered in his chest and shoulders. He examined it. He massaged the mental knots, freeing the tension, then climbed again. Seven cervical vertebrae brought him to the brain stem. Once inside the compartment he would need to retain position for nearly sixteen hours, until the three o’clock patrol had passed. The brain would come into play then. For now, he turned away.
On the path down he paused to breathe air into the throat, the heart, the solar plexus, the center itself.
He arranged himself in a triple fold—lying facedown and extending his arms above his head, then arching the back until his buttocks touched his shoulders. Another push brought knees to elbows and he was doubled over on himself, folded in half.
Without untangling his limbs he carefully lifted his body, forearms trembling with strain, and lowered himself from seat to floor.
He began to insert himself into the compartment.
The buttocks went first. Then a period of repositioning: finding the proper angle to continue. His pelvis lifted, and he moved another two inches. His hips were tight against the walls. The compartment smelled oddly medicinal.
He pressed on. His knees, already touching elbows and ears, were forced farther down. Another interior journey up the spine, seeking openness. Down again. He moved another two inches. He rested.
Claustrophobia could come now, at any time. But he was not here. He was somewhere else—in the place he had spent the past hours reaching. It was a quiet place, icy and still.
