by John Locke
“The police department doesn’t think so.”
“The court system does.”
“Let’s not quibble about the validity of lie detectors,” Bobby says. “What makes you think the beating you heard was taped from another time?”
“I notice you haven’t denied it.”
“I’m still at the ‘how could you possibly believe that?’ stage.”
“During the beating last night, Jill kept saying, ‘There’s no one else! I’ve been faithful!’”
“So?”
“The first time she ran off you didn’t know she had sex with Wisby until after you beat her up.”
“So?”
“When the beating started, you didn’t suspect Wisby. If you had, you would have asked if she fucked him and she would have said, “No.” She would not have said ‘There’s no one else.’ That’s the answer to a different question.”
“I can’t follow your logic,” Bobby says.
“She answered the question you asked. And when you asked it, you didn’t know about Wisby. But last night you suspected she and I had sex. If she’d been here last night you would have asked, ‘Did you fuck Jack Tallow?’ and she would have said, ‘No.’ But she kept saying, ‘There’s no one else.’ It’s the answer to a different question. The one you asked the first time she ran away when you didn’t have a specific person in mind. She wasn’t here last night. Admit it.”
Bobby pauses a while, then says, “Your explanation sucks. It was torture to my ears.”
“But?”
“But you’re right. She was never here. Like you said, her beating was taped from the first time. But don’t act so smug. I made you cry. And I’m still going to cut off your nuts.”
“At least I know Jill got away safely.”
“You think?”
“I know.”
Bobby unwraps his hands and tosses the gauze on the counter behind him with the dirty dishes. Then says, “Why do you assume I don’t know exactly where she is?”
“If you knew where she was, you wouldn’t have gone through this whole charade with me. You’d have brought her back and beat her up the way you planned.”
“So if I told you that a half hour ago Jill was in a lake house on Leeds Road in Willow Lake, Arkansas, that belongs to a guy named Jack Russell, who happens to be you, what would you call that, a lucky guess?”
Jack’s heart nearly stops.
Bobby says, “You know what I’d call it?”
“Synchronicity,” Jack says.
Bobby smiles. “In another world, under different circumstances, I bet we’d be friends.”
“You’d lose that bet.”
Bobby shrugs. “Perhaps you’re right. Look, I’m tired of dicking around. Are you ready to give up your nuts?”
“No.”
“Just to show there are no hard feelings—no pun intended—I’ll let you hang onto them till tomorrow night.”
“Why so generous?”
“I want you to be completely lucid when the explosion takes place.”
“What explosion?”
“All in good time, Jack.”
He looks at his goons. “Rayburn? Clayton? Please help me escort Jack to the basement. Jack? You’ll want to glance out the window, and at your watch, so you can remember the exact moment you saw daylight for the last time in your life.”
He looks at his watch and thinks, It’s eleven-thirty. Last time I spoke to Jill was two-forty-five. She did what I told her to do—left without me and took a cab to the lake house. That would have been around four a.m. Seven-and-a-half hours ago.
Jill DiPiese.
Private Airfield, Jackson, Mississippi.
4:00 a.m.
Seven-and-a-half Hours Earlier.
After calling Jack’s number twenty-six times without getting an answer, Jill tells the cabbie to take her to the Memphis airport as fast as possible. Once there, she enters the bathroom, washes her face, looks in the mirror. Wonders what she’d pay for a hairbrush, toothpaste and toothbrush. But all the shops are closed. She thinks about Jack and bursts into tears. After composing herself as best she can, she walks back out and flags the first cab in line.
“I’m Frank,” he says.
Taking note of her swollen eyes, tear-streaked cheeks, filthy clothes, he asks, “Are you okay?”
“I’m not at my best, today, Frank. I’m…Emma. Emma Wilson.”
He pauses, then says, “Where to, Emma?”
“Ever heard of Willow Lake, Arkansas?”
“Heard of it? Yeah. Been there? No, not yet. Is that where we’re going?”
“Do you have time to take me that far? And help me run some errands when we arrive?”
“Of course.”
“You’re sure?”
“It’s what I do, Emma.”
La Pierre, Louisiana.
Bobby’s Basement.
“There aren’t many basements in Louisiana,” Bobby says, as they head down the steps. Then adds, “And there are none in the world like this one. Come, I’ll give you the grand tour.”
The basement is well-lighted, but musty. At the bottom of the steps there’s a small sitting area, and two steel doors. One’s in front of them, the other, to their right. Bobby removes a card from his pocket and slides it through a scanner. The first door clicks, and Bobby opens it, revealing a hall with twenty-four jail cells. As they walk down the hall, Bobby introduces Jack to the prisoners. Sounding more like a tour director than a fiend, he says, “First cell on the left belongs to Don Hess. Don, meet Jack.”
Don hisses at him.
“That’s Don’s kid, Billy, on the right. Say hi, Billy.”
Billy hisses.
Bobby says, “On the left is Don’s wife, Blair. I’ll give Blair a good fucking from time to time, just to annoy Don and Billy.”
There are fourteen prisoners. Two men, eight women, four children. The children’s ages range from approximately sixteen to early twenties. All heads have been completely shaved, and each prisoner hisses when Bobby commands. When they come to the end of the hall Bobby says, “You’re probably wondering who these people are, am I right?”
Jack says nothing.
Bobby says, “You’ve heard of the witness protection program?”
“What about it?”
“It’s a federal program.”
“So?”
“Most people don’t know it’s federal, not state. And there’s a lot of hassle and red tape involved, and certain criteria needs to be met before they’ll accept a witness or his family into the program. The bottom line, most witnesses don’t get approved. Ask me where I’m going with this.”
“Where are you going with this?”
“I know some unscrupulous prosecutors who want the witness’s testimony so badly, they tell the families they’ve been accepted even when they weren’t. They promise new identities, housing, living expenses, medical care, job training, and employment assistance in return for their testimony. That’s where we come in. I get two of my guys to put on suits and pretend they’re U.S. Marshals. We give them twenty-four hour protection in high-threat environments like pretrial conferences, court appearances, and trials. When the trials are over, my guys drive them here and I put them in cells.”
He laughs. “Can you imagine the look on their faces? They’re expecting this whole new life, and they wind up worse off than the guys they testified against!”
He laughs some more. Then says, “I usually sell the informant to the guys he testified against, and keep the wives and children. I fuck the females, and feed the males to my hogs on the Blood River.”
“You have sex with their children?”
“Of course! But not till they’re of age. I mean, what sort of monster do you think I am?”
“The kind who just admitted fucking the females.”
“I’m not the heartless bastard you make me out to be. I make a point to celebrate every child’s eighteenth birthday.”
“You don’t st
rike me as a cake and ice cream kind of guy.”
“I celebrate in my own way. When girls turn eighteen, I pop their cherries. When boys turn eighteen, I crush their feet and toss them in the hog pen. Any other questions?”
“Why are they hissing at me?”
“We cut their vocal cords to keep the sound under control, and discourage communication between family members. We’ll cut your cords, too, after the explosion.”
They retrace their steps, go out the door, and Bobby runs his card through the scanner beside the second door. When it clicks, Bobby opens it and says, “This is where you’ll be spending the rest of your life, unless I decide to turn you into hog meal.”
This hall is identical to the first one, except shorter. It contains twelve jail cells. The last two are empty.
“There are currently three noteworthy guests in this wing,” Bobby says. “First on the left is the dickless wonder, Professor Owen Wolfe. The cell beside him belongs to Todd Hardy. Across from him is my old driver, Marcus Wisby. Take a good look at Todd and Marcus’s private area, because that’s what yours will look like in a couple of days. Like a twig without the berries.”
Jack feels a pinch in his right shoulder, but before he can react, his legs give way. Within seconds he’s completely paralyzed.
“Don’t be upset, Jack. Over the years we’ve learned it’s easier to strip our prisoners when they’re drugged. The effects will wear off in a couple of hours.”
Bobby’s goons strip Jack and chain his neck to the wall. Then Bobby says, “We’ve given you five feet of slack in the chain, which allows you to stand, sit, or lie down beside the wall. But we can tighten the chain and force you to stand whenever we want. Sometimes we’ll tighten it for spite, sometimes for fun, but we always tighten it when you misbehave. You might think you can just relax your legs and hang yourself, but we’ve learned it doesn’t work that way. Human nature being what it is, your legs will find a way to save you every time. We’ll feed you once a day and remove your shit bucket twice a day. If you spill the bucket, you don’t eat that day. Sometimes you’ll spill the bucket on purpose, just to break the monotony. We understand it, but you won’t want to make a habit of it. Twice a week we hose you down, and if you’ve been cooperative that week, we’ll let you use soap. The barber comes in once a week to shave you, including head, underarms, and private area. I plan to let you keep your vocal cords and nuts till after the explosion tomorrow night, because what I’ve got planned is huge, and I want you to be a part of it. But if you cry or make any noises louder than a bowel movement before then, we’ll cut your cords and nuts ahead of schedule.”
Bobby starts to leave, then says, “It’s your call, Jack, but if I were you, I’d enjoy my dick as much as possible the next two days.”
With that, he closes the cell door, locks it, then he and his goons walk away.
“Jack, pay attention,” Bobby says. “I think you’ll be able to appreciate this.”
It takes Jack a moment to realize he’s not dreaming. Bobby’s actually sitting on a folding chair in the hall in front of his cell. He wonders how it’s possible only a day-and-a-half has passed since he began his imprisonment. To Jack it feels like a week. He assumed Bobby got busy with one of his many other nefarious activities, and forgot to mutilate him.
Bobby says, “You’ve got some experience with explosives, right? I mean, you blew up those hunters a couple nights ago.”
Jack starts to speak, but nothing comes out. He swallows, clears his throat, and tries again. “I know a little,” he says. “Why are you asking?”
“Have you ever heard of a double bomb?”
“No.”
Bobby says, “I’m not sure exactly how it works, but as I understand it, a master bomb-builder can fill a canister with eighty-pounds of powdered aluminum, and a fuel substance, and use a scatter charge to detonate it.”
“That’s just a conventional explosive, with aluminum powder. What’s the purpose of the powder?”
“The first explosion creates a mushroom cloud of aluminum powder. Then, a guy on the ground uses a rocket launcher to fire a small warhead at the cloud, and the cloud somehow makes the second explosion exponentially more powerful than it would have been on its own. Does that make sense?”
“You’re talking about some sort of FAE.”
“What does that mean?”
“Fuel-air explosive. There’s a more technical term, but I can’t remember it.”
Jack pauses. He didn’t expect to have a conversation with Bobby before having his vocal cords removed, nor did he desire one. And yet, here he is, chatting away like an old woman in a nursing home. Why? Because it suddenly dawned on him this could be the last conversation he’ll ever have, using his voice. More importantly, it could be a chance to find out what’s happened to Jill.
Bobby says, “I want your opinion on how much damage this type of explosive could do.”
“It depends on several factors.”
“Such as?”
“The quality of ingredients, the skill of the bomb-builder, the height of the initial detonation, the diameter of the cloud, the size of the warhead…”
“Assume the bomb-builder’s top notch. Assume the first bomb detonates a hundred feet above the target, and the warhead is equal to thirteen pounds of TNT.”
“That’s a formidable weapon. What’s the target?”
“Your lake house.”
“What?” Jack can’t see his face, of course, but knows it just turned white. When he’s able to find his voice again, he says, “Why?”
“The why is my business,” Bobby says. “But I’ll tell you the how. Two hours ago the bomb-builder loaded an eighty pound canister to the bottom of Mike’s crop duster. In half an hour or less, Mike’s going to fly over your lake house and pull a lever that will disengage the canister. If all goes according to plan, it’ll self-detonate a hundred feet above your home. Then, my man on the ground—the same one who saved Jill’s life two hours ago—will—” He pulls a piece of paper from his pocket and reads, “…use a rocket launcher to fire a thermobaric warhead at the target.”
Jack stares straight ahead. Thermobaric. That’s the term he couldn’t remember.
Bobby says, “I call it a double bomb. You know, keep it simple, right?”
Jack slumps against the back wall of his cell. “Why would you possibly want to do this?”
“Like I said, that’s my business. But the short version is I’m considering using explosives for personal gain. I’ve been working with an expert bomb-builder for months. The choice of target is quite recent, though, and I have you to thank for that. So this is a test, to see how well the weapon works. And it offers the added benefit of being a fun way to kill Jill.”
“You’re going to blow her up? That’s your plan?”
“Yup. Cool, huh?”
“More like insane.”
Bobby chuckles, then says, “The last thing that’ll go through Jill’s mind before she dies? Her ass!”
“That’s an old joke.”
Bobby shrugs. “What do you expect? I’m an old man.”
“I don’t think you understand the magnitude of what you’re doing. A weapon like that could destroy everything within a hundred yards of the target! Other homes. Innocent people.”
“Tough shit.”
Jack stares at him with total contempt. “You’re a pig of a man.”
Bobby grins. Says, “Oink!”
“Fuck you.”
“Don’t be bitter, Jack. No one likes a bitter prisoner.”
“I’d be a lot less bitter if I could keep my nuts and vocal cords.”
“That’s not going to happen, sport. You understand why, don’t you?”
“Tell me. I’d like to hear the words as they leak out of your foul, sadistic, cesspool of a mouth.”
“It’s the ultimate torture, Jack. You, sitting in this cell for the rest of your life with no hope of ever seeing the light of day. Nothing to do all day, all night,
day after day. Guys on death row have it ten times better than you! They can talk to family members, guards, their attorneys…they can dream, hope, eat a variety of food…and they can jack off. Not you, Jack. You’ll get the same meal at the same time every day for the rest of your life. You won’t be able to complain or cry out in anger or frustration, because the only sound you’ll be able to make is a hiss. And your hiss will sound like everyone else’s. You’ll retreat into your mind, like prisoners in solitary confinement, except that those prisoners can think of the women they’ve been with, or wanted to be with, and can express those thoughts physically. But you’ll avoid those thoughts, Jack, because your dick won’t work. You’ll be amazed how frustrating that’ll be when you’re sitting in a cell twenty-four hours a day. I’m taking everything from you: your time, your life, your hope for a better future, your ability to communicate, your sexual thoughts, your ability to pleasure yourself, your will to live.”
Jack decides not to tell Bobby that men can lose their nuts and still get erections and experience orgasms. This, according to Jack’s best friend from college, who got testicular cancer, lost his nuts, but claimed he could still perform.
Jack says, “You’re the man, Bobby. You can take all that away from me. But you know what you can’t do?”
“What’s that, sport?”
“You can’t make Jill love you.”
“Her loss.”
“We both know whose loss it is,” Jack says.
“Jesus, Jack. Have you no pride? You do know she was using you, right? In her eyes you’re no better than Wisby, my driver. All she wanted was to get away. And as for Jill living in a hillbilly tourist town in Bum Fuck, Arkansas?” He laughs. “She wouldn’t have lasted a month. And if you knew her at all, you’d know that.”
Jack waits it out while Bobby continues putting him down. But when he says, “You actually made me feel sorry for you yesterday morning,” Jack says, “I doubt that.”
“It’s true. When I told you Jill agreed to come back if I let you go? You actually believed me!” He laughs. “How pathetic. What a sap you are!”
He laughs some more.
Jack says, “You mentioned your guy saved her life two hours ago?”
