by E. Z. Rinsky
“Not even supposed to be here?” The second ogre says this as if savoring the taste of it in his mouth.
I swivel to gape at Courtney in disbelief.
What the fuck are you doing?
“Not even supposed to be here . . .” the first ogre echoes, like it’s a mantra whose implications become more clear with every repetition. He glares hard at me, like he’s wondering which part of me tastes the best. “ . . . And Mr. Harrison is a busy man, Luke. I think he’d be pleased if we dealt with this internally. Took a little initiative. That okay, Doc? Want us to deal with these fags ourselves?”
I’m about to point out that were we indeed homosexuals, it seems unlikely that we’d also be trying any “funny business” with Dr. Nancy, when one of them puts me in a headlock. Not sure if it’s Dennis or Luke. Not sure if it really matters.
Before I have time to protest, I get a fist to the kidneys. Fire in my chest, can’t breathe. Dennis/Luke is grunting something to the effect of, “I’m just getting started, you little homosexual,” as he continues pummeling my stomach. Through watering eyes, I see Courtney’s not faring much better. So why does it look like that asshole is . . . smiling?
We’re being dragged out of Dr. Nancy’s office in bear hugs that are unnecessarily firm at this point, considering my limbs are sort of moving on their own, spasming like jellyfish tentacles. I try to say something, but it just comes out as an empty gurgle.
I hear the beeps of key cards on doors. We’re being dragged down a metal flight of stairs like two sacks of dirty laundry. My forehead clips the corner of the railing, making a ringing sound that I can’t tell is inside or outside my skull.
“Guess you two didn’t behave yourselves, did you?” my escort guffaws.
“Please. You’re making a mistake . . .” I mutter.
This provokes a deep belly laugh I can hear reverberating against my spine.
“If this is wrong, then why does it feel so right?” says Courtney’s Ogre.
Mine whispers deep in my ear. “You made the mistake fucking with Dr. Nancy. And you fuck with Dr. Nancy, you fuck with me.”
They’ve got a hell of an employee loyalty program here.
“You’re in big trouble,” I groan halfheartedly.
“Funny,” Dennis says. “That’s not how it looks from here.”
“I wanna talk to Harrison,” I grumble, vaguely aware of being carried back past the row of cells. Enthusiastic cheers muffled by thick doors—I must look as bad as I feel.
Beside me I see Courtney hardly struggling. Just staring straight ahead, letting himself be manhandled. No bruises on his face. Smart. No marks.
“I wanna talk to your sup . . . superior,” I bluster. Cold air shocks my face once we’re out the front doors of Sachar. Then we’re being jammed into the back of a golf cart. Our hands are cuffed behind our backs. Dennis and Luke drive up front.
“You don’t worry about Harrison,” Dennis or Luke says with glee. “We’ll let him know that you two got what you needed and politely ducked out.”
I command my head to turn slightly, enough to make eye contact with Courtney; convey what the fuck were you thinking, you fucking piece of shit. I manage to swivel my stiff neck just enough to witness Courtney swoon and nearly fall out of the cart, saved only by his cuffs.
Guess these goons’ job demands a certain dose of healthy sadism. Still, I’m shocked they’d do this to ostensible FBI agents.
Only because Courtney said that to Dr. Nancy! And then that shit about not supposed to be here!
“Court—” I start to mumble.
The golf cart flies over the frozen athletic field; my handcuffed wrists are screaming with every bump. Dennis and Luke wave to some colleagues across the field supervising a group of inmates, who start clapping when they see us in the back of the cart. I suppose this passes for a pretty interesting day around here.
There’s a screech of rubber on asphalt as we return to the driveway by the main entrance. My vision is getting blurry, and I think I might puke. Somewhere, distantly, I perceive Dennis and Luke having a talk with Walrus from the security booth.
Here come the dry heaves.
“Courtney,” I finally manage to whisper. “I’m gonna fucking kill you. Why would you say all that shit?
“Mmm-hmm,” he replies dreamily.
Front gate creaks open. The cart lurches forward and takes this morning’s breakfast with it, deposits it squarely on the back of the driver’s neck. The cart screams to a halt. I think to myself, as I watch Dennis turn to face me, the realization of what just landed on his neck slowly creeping over his face, that this is unquestionably gonna be the high point of my day.
“You fucking . . .”
Rough paws unlock my cuffs. I’m jerked to my feet, and then the world is spinning and black pavement rushes up to meet my face. I taste blood in my mouth and think maybe I just spit out a tooth. Another fist into my ribs.
I’ve been on the receiving end of so many beat downs, I consider myself something of a connoisseur. And I have to say, I begrudgingly admire these guys’ technique.
“We see you fuckers around here again, we strip you ass-naked in the middle of a Sachar cell block and release the animals. You’ll be wishing for another bashing.”
Another kick in the gut for good luck, and they return to their golf cart. I close my eyes and can hear the whirr of its electric engine receding into the distance, along with their whoops of delight.
Lying still, the pain becomes a little more distant. Like, the thing that is hurting no longer seems to be me. My body has wisely decided that for the moment, my flesh and whatever constitutes the essence of Frank Lamb are two separate entities.
God. What if Sadie could see me now? The shame would be worse than any sort of pain. This is her daddy’s life. His job. Nobody should get the shit kicked out of them after middle school. That’s like one of the principles upon which civilization is built. You won’t get your ass kicked as a grown adult unless you’re asking for it. Today, we were asking for it. Well. Courtney asked for it.
“Fff . . . Frank . . .”
I turn over to face him, and the pain rushes back. This is all his fault. All his goddamn fault. I crawl over to him as quickly as my throbbing limbs will allow me. He’s stomach up on the freezing asphalt, staring wide-eyed at the sky, like he’s never seen a fucking cloud before.
“You . . . this is all your fault.”
I’m nearly on top of him. Raise my right arm as high as I can and try to punch him, but succeed basically in letting my loose fist just slap his thigh.
“I hate you,” I say, spitting up blood.
“Frank . . . Stop.” Courtney can’t even raise his hands to defend himself.
“Fuck. You.” I keep half hitting him with limp hands.
“We’re . . . we’re in the middle of the road. We gotta get off the road,” Courtney groans.
Fuck. I hate him most when he’s right.
He flops onto his stomach, releasing a guttural expression of pain. And then he’s soldier-crawling to the side of the road. To the parking lot where the Honda is. He looks back over his shoulder for me.
“C’mon, Frank,” he says. “C’mon.”
“Once we’re off the road—” I cough. “I’m gonna . . . gonna kill you.”
He’s into the dirt shoulder long before I am. Better technique: He figured out how to roll like a snail or something. I’m not quite agile enough for that at the moment. It must take me five minutes to collapse alongside him.
“It’s too cold out here,” I say. “We gotta get into the car.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And then I’m gonna kill you. Why the fuck would you say that to that doctor? Why would you tell the orderlies we weren’t supposed to be there!”
“To get close to them.”
/> Courtney slowly, gingerly, reaches into his torn suit pocket and pulls out a white card dangling by a snapped blue ribbon. I squint.
“Is that an ID card?”
“Yeah. Dennis’s. Or Luke’s. Whatever.”
My brain is having a hard time processing anything right now save the copious amounts of pain emanating from my stomach.
“Why?”
“Because we gotta see Silas,” Courtney says. “We’re going back inside.”
I start to laugh but end up just wheezing. “No . . .” I mutter.
“Yep,” Courtney grunts, then he’s up on his knees, hauling me up off the frozen earth.
“They’re gonna figure out we weren’t even FBI agents. You don’t think Dr. Nancy is gonna tell Harrison what happened?”
“We’re breaking in.”
We’re both on our wobbly knees now. I stare blankly at him.
“What?”
“And we have to do it soon. That buffoon will report his missing card this afternoon, but it will take at least a few days to issue new cards to the staff and change all the magnetic locks.”
I’M CLIMBING DOWN the steep stairs into a cellar, gripping a cold metal pipe overhead for balance. Hello? Anybody down here? I wish I had a flashlight. I reach the bottom, and my eyes adjust to the dim light crawling through the windows. A metal table, a wooden chair. It’s freezing down here.
And no Savannah this time. Instead her sister, Greta, is sitting in the chair, her form brilliantly alluded to by a dazzling white dress.
Did you find it?
Not yet.
Her green eyes fix on me. She rises from the chair. She’s shaped like an hourglass. Her warm, minty breath is on my face, her lips graze my cheek.
I don’t care. I can’t wait.
Her hand goes under my shirt, initially shocking me with cold—
Courtney smacks my face, and I open my eyes.
“I was worried you’d lost too much blood, but looks like you’ve got some to spare.” He frowns.
I sit up and my body shrieks a protest.
“Where are we?” I groan.
“Motel, about four miles from the center.”
“I need coffee,” I say.
“You should have water first.”
“I. Need. Coffee,” I growl.
“Suit yourself.” Courtney shrugs.
I try to roll out of bed, and everything from my neck to my knees lights up in pain. Courtney rushes to my side to help me.
“How are you in such good shape?” I ask.
“I’m hurting too,” he says. “But I was concentrating on relaxing my body as they hit me. Makes a huge difference. You were probably rigid as a board. No shame in that, that’s the body’s natural reaction.”
I’m standing on my wobbly feet. Barely.
“Now you tell me. How long have I been out?”
“About . . .” Courtney checks his watch. “Thirty hours.”
“Jesus . . .”
“Yep. What hurts?”
I laugh a little, and my stomach burns.
“Hurts to breathe,” I say and wave a hand around my belly. “And all around here.”
“Bruised ribs and abdominal muscles, probably,” he says. “It’ll just hurt to breathe and walk for a week or three. But go pee and make sure there’s no blood. Blood means they got you in the kidneys and we’ll have to get you to a hospital right away.”
“Can you get me some coffee?”
“Want something better than coffee?” he asks.
I raise an eyebrow. “I’m listening.”
He leaves me leaning over the nightstand and starts ruffling through his suitcase. My stomach is throbbing slowly, painfully. Zero appetite.
“Think they’re looking for us?”
“Maybe, but I’m not particularly worried,” Courtney says from across the room. “Harrison called your cell phone, upset. He apologized for his orderlies’ bout of pugilism but is also under the impression we made a move on Dr. Nancy. I don’t think he suspects the badges and number are fake, thinks we’re just perverts. I asked him to email his incident report and assured him we’d have an internal disciplinary hearing. You had still better cancel that number right away though—is it in your name?”
“Yeah.”
Courtney breaks from his rummaging to look over his shoulder and deliver a frown of extreme condescension.
“Never get a phone plan under your real name. Cancel it immediately and get a new sim card under a pseudonym.”
“Ugh.”
“Even if they figure out it’s all a sham,” Courtney says as he finds what he’s looking for and shuts his suitcase, “they’ll spend ages tracking that fake license plate. They’ll get nothing from those badges, and our disguises were good. Your phone is the only loose end.”
Courtney returns to my stooped form, bearing a Mason jar filled with a reddish-brown fluid. Looks like beef broth. In his other hand is a small syringe.
“Bend over the bed,” he orders me.
“This doesn’t sound better than coffee.”
“I promise it is.”
I wearily oblige. Courtney yanks down my boxers. I’m thinking, this is rock bottom. Or at least, it better be.
“Whoa!” I shriek as he plunges the needle into my left buttocks. Instant energy. Blood rushes to my brain. He’s right. Better than coffee. “What the fuck is that?” I say, hastily pulling back my underwear.
“My energy mix,” he says, unable to keep the pride out of his voice. “All the B vitamins, plus ginkgo, calcium, potassium and taurine. Delivered instantly to your bloodstream. Nothing better for your immune system.”
There’s still pain, but I feel a little more empowered to cope with it.
“I think I love vitamins.” I grin.
“And now you get coffee,” Courtney says, tossing the needle in the trash. “Because we have a lot of work to do. And we have to do it fast.”
WE’RE SITTING IN the Blue Ribbon Diner, across the street from the motel. In a shopping center between a Laundromat and a CVS. The tabletop between us is a maze of maple syrup stains. The only other patrons in here are a couple of truckers sitting at the bar and a family of four, whom I admire for apparently enjoying their backwoods vacation, which they probably keep telling themselves is rustic.
Courtney keeps staring out to the parking lot, as if to make sure our car is still there. It is, with its original plates restored, dull grey exterior the same color as the moody sky.
I pop a few Advil. This is like the mother of all hangovers, even with my vitamin boost.
A wide-hipped woman with red hair up in a bun drops a bucket of coffee in front of me and slams down a sad mug of hot water with a Lipton tea bag for Courtney.
“And what can I get you two gentlemen to eat?” she asks, cheery, unfazed by the cut on my forehead from that stairwell banister and the dark circles under my eyes. Courtney’s long face is clear of injuries, but he looks gaunt and pale. The removal of his ponytail and the buzz cut he gave himself in the motel seem to add about five years. He now looks less like a dirty hippie and more like a too-old Brooklyn barista whose heart just isn’t in it anymore. He’s wearing a checkered flannel and that decaying scarf. Beside him on the table sits his red duck-hunting hat.
“I’ll get the Western omelet, plus a side of bacon and a short stack of pancakes,” I say.
“Hungry boy.” She smiles. “And you, hun?”
“Could I get the Greek salad?” Courtney asks.
The waitress frowns as she records this, like she’s unsure if this item is even on the menu.
“Except without cheese, if you don’t mind,” Courtney adds.
“That it?”
“Yes, thank you.”
She sighs. “Gotta eat more than t
hat, sweetie. You’re just skin and bones.”
“I’ll be fine,” he says and hands her the menu. She scoots off to the kitchen, probably to ask if the line cooks can scrounge up some lettuce. I take a long sip of coffee.
“So you’re proposing we go back to the center in different disguises and break into his cell?”
Courtney shrugs and dunks his tea bag into his steaming mug. “Unless you have a better idea.”
“Pretty nuts . . .” I say. “What do you think the odds are that Silas has the tape in his cell?”
“If it exists, that would sure be the logical place for it to be.”
I nod slowly and say, “There has to be a tape. There are too many trails leading to it.” I stare at the swinging kitchen doors longingly. My stomach is really starting to grumble. “Orange lets us walk out of his den unscathed, only because he thinks we give him a chance at a listen. Dr. Nancy totally tightened up when I mentioned it—maybe Silas told her about it in therapy? Greta Kanter is shelling out $350K to have it in her gloved hand . . .” The waitress bursts through the saloon doors, proudly displaying a tray filled with steaming eggs and meats.
“Here’s yours,” the waitress smiles, unloading the trays in front of me. “And yours, dear. No cheese, like you asked. You want any dressing or anything?”
“I’m fine, thank you,” Courtney smiles. “Just some more hot water would be great.”
She laughs and moves on to the family.
“Something is weird about Silas too,” I hiss. “He kills his parents, and then doesn’t kill again for, what, twenty-two years? That’s one hell of a hiatus for these voices in his head. I’m thinking maybe there’s more victims out there. Maybe even more tapes.”
Courtney nods in agreement.
I dig into my omelet and shovel a forkful of ham, egg, Swiss and pepper into my mouth. “Oh Lord. This is the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”
Courtney glares at me.
“Sorry,” I say before inhaling a bacon strip. “Does me eating meat offend you?”
“I do find it a little barbaric,” he says, toying with his salad, inspecting a rubbery black olive. “But it’s your choice. It just confuses me, truthfully. I like you. You’re a generally empathetic person, so I don’t understand how you can eat another creature with such callous disregard.”
