‘Reuben, what stories? What steamboat? Please tell me what this is about.’
Frost ignored her as if she hadn’t spoken. ‘It’s commendable, really. Or at least mildly heart-warming. Not that it particularly matters to the task at hand.’
Reuben couldn’t hold the man’s pinched, hooded gaze. He looked at Claire instead. She met his eyes, waiting. But he said nothing.
What could he say?
‘You’re scaring me,’ she said. ‘Please tell me what this is about.’
‘Ah,’ Frost interrupted. ‘Here we are now.’
One of his men – henchmen? Would you call them henchmen? – brought a covered platter to the table. Reuben recognized it as the silver serving tray his Nana Edie had willed to him. He’d never used it before. In fact, he’d sort of forgotten all about it. It looked pretty tarnished. You’d definitely want to give it a once-over before using it for company.
‘Thank you, Lucius,’ Frost said, as Goon One placed the platter on the table. ‘Aberdeen? The wine?’
Goon Two came over and filled Reuben’s glass from the open bottle of Malbec. Claire’s glass remained untouched in front of her. Reuben thought, How does he expect her to eat with her hands cuffed to the chair?
And with that thought, certain details about their present circumstances began to clarify in Reuben’s mind. He thought of the odd, vaguely unpleasant smell he’d first noticed coming up the outer stairs. He thought of the empty parakeet cage.
‘You look like a white-meat man to me,’ Frost said, lifting the silver lid from the tray. ‘Do I have your number?’
Reuben felt his gorge rise at the sight of Van Damme’s small carcass, plucked and charred, positioned in the center of the large platter. It looked preposterous. Like the Thanksgiving turkey at a child’s tea party.
‘And you, dear?’ Frost picked up his knife and fork, gesturing to Claire with the utensils. ‘Don’t be shy. I’ll do the carving.’
Across the table, Claire gawped, then gulped, then squeezed her eyes closed.
Frost tilted his scar-wrinkled head. ‘Not hungry?’
All at once she leaned to the side until she was practically hanging from her handcuffs, then vomited on to the carpet.
‘You asshole,’ Reuben said, standing up. A rough hand shoved him straight back down again. He shrugged the hand away and glared at Frost. ‘You cooked my bird?’
‘And here I thought you were about to defend poor Claire’s honor.’ Frost winked. ‘None for you either, then, I take it.’
Claire heaved again. Reuben heard the contents of her stomach splattering the wet carpet. Now the smell of it rose up, mingling with the aroma of burnt parakeet. He felt light-headed.
Frost looked back and forth between his two goons. ‘Lucius? Aberdeen? No?’
The goons shook their heads, folding their gloved hands in front of them.
Frost seemed disappointed.
Then he shrugged. He picked up Van Damme’s carcass by one tiny blackened foot and popped the whole thing in his mouth. He began chewing, bones and all.
‘Oh, God,’ Reuben heard himself say. The room seemed to tilt. His vision started to wobble. He placed his hands on the table to steady himself.
‘Actually, you’re right,’ Frost said, grimacing in displeasure. He kept chewing, speaking around his crunching mouthful. ‘Tastes … domesticated.’
Reuben became aware of the sensation that he was sinking, slowly, as if on a pillow of air. Somebody seemed to be dimming the lights in the apartment again. But who? The last things he remembered seeing were Lucius and Aberdeen standing off to the side, expressionless; Claire, slumped across the arm of her chair, hair hanging around her face like a curtain; Malcom Frost, across the table, still chewing.
Then everything warped, faded, and went dark before his eyes.
SEVEN
Half an hour before dusk, Ben stood on the porch and watched a dark, ominous-looking 1983 GMC Vandura climb the lane toward the house, trailing streamers of exhaust and rock dust behind it.
Within a few moments, the van swaggered to a stop in the turnaround, and the rear panel door slid open. Out piled Ajeet Mallipudi, Jeremy Zwart, and Devon Miller, all dressed head-to-toe in army-surplus camouflage. Ben headed down the steps and across the leaf-strewn grass to meet them.
‘Ben!’ Ajeet called. ‘Hi!’
‘Hey, Jeeter. By tomorrow, I figured you meant tomorrow.’
‘I know, this worked out great! Now we can set up camp tonight.’
‘Battle commences at dawn,’ Devon announced, catching the cuff of his pants on the door latch as he climbed out of the van, nearly pitching himself face-down on to the rock-topped lane.
Jeremy laughed at him. ‘I told you to blouse those.’
‘Blouse your ass,’ Devon muttered.
Meanwhile, Ben tried not to perk up too visibly as Anabeth Glass hopped from the front passenger seat. She wore her hair under a black kerchief, long thermal sleeves under an ancient-looking Queen t-shirt, and form-fitting tactical trousers. Unlike Devon, she touched down with poise and clear athleticism. She also looked much better in combat boots.
‘Hey there,’ she said, smiling at Ben. ‘How’s the tummy?’
‘Much improved, thank you.’
‘You weren’t really sick, were you?’
‘Not really,’ Ben admitted. ‘But I was out of comp days.’
‘I knew it,’ Jeremy said.
‘Tell Corby on him,’ Devon said. ‘I dare you.’
Ben ignored them both. To Anabeth, he said, ‘The clowns from Google didn’t show, huh?’
Abe clucked like a chicken – a comment on the mettle of their slated opponents, he gathered. ‘They got off easy, am I right, boys?’
Ajeet, Jeremy, and Devon raised their fists in unison.
Amidst this exchange of esprit de corps, the van’s owner, Gordon Frerking, made his way around the front bumper to stand next to Ben. Gordon crossed his arms and said, ‘Well?’
Ben crossed his arms too, doing his best to match Gordon’s pose. He looked at Gordon – shaggy mat of black hair, bookish spectacles, unfortunate chin whiskers – then back at the van. ‘So this is it, huh?’
‘This is her.’
‘Paint came out nice.’
Gordon nodded. ‘Wait’ll you see the inside.’
For the moment, they appraised the exterior of the vehicle together. A majority of American television owners Ben’s age likely would have recognized the van, with its charcoal-on-black color scheme and slashing red body stripe, as a true-to-life replica of the signature vehicle used in the 1980s program The A-Team – a show to which Gordon Frerking, Ben knew, was far too young to have been personally exposed. Ben credited late-night cable television reruns and a big-screen reboot. There was something so inexplicable about the time and expense Gordon must have pissed away on such a project – something so baffling about its ultimate purpose – that Ben couldn’t help admiring it. Part of him envied these dopes.
‘Well,’ he said to Gordon, ‘you’re obviously not familiar with the value of a dollar, but if you’re asking for my reaction, I say bravo.’
Gordon dipped his head coolly in acknowledgement.
Jeremy piped up: ‘We gonna pitch these tents before it gets dark, or what?’
Claire’s cheeks were streaked with drying mascara. Having been granted five minutes alone together in the spare bedroom Reuben used as an office, she couldn’t seem to decide whether she wanted to kill him or never let him go. Urgently, she whispered, ‘Could this have anything to do with how much online poker you’ve been playing? Do you owe these people money or something?’
God, how I wish, Reuben thought. ‘It’s nothing like that.’
‘Then why won’t you explain? Why aren’t we dialing 911 this minute?’
‘Because explaining would take all night, and we’ve only got two minutes left.’ Raising his voice to be heard beyond the closed office door, Reuben added, ‘And because at least one of t
hose gorillas from Men’s Wearhouse is standing outside this door right now, listening to every word we say. I can hear him breathing with his mouth open!’
He heard rustling movement just outside the door. Was that Lucius standing guard out there? Or was it Aberdeen? Reuben didn’t honestly know which goon was which. All Reuben Wasserman knew, down in the innermost part of his gut, was that he couldn’t breathe a word of the truth to Claire after all.
Not now. And not simply because she wouldn’t believe him.
‘What stories don’t you believe?’ she asked him again, as if reading his thoughts. She’d always been good at that. Usually better than Reuben was at reading his own.
‘Boogeyman stories,’ he sighed. ‘At least I thought so.’
He tried to fold her into his arms, but Claire wasn’t budging. She jerked away and covered her face in her hands. ‘Who are these people?’
‘I swear on my life, sweetie, I absolutely do not know.’
‘I don’t believe you. What did he mean about water carriers? What tradition? What package are you supposed to help them collect?’
‘It has something to do with old family business, that’s all I know for sure. It doesn’t actually have anything to do with me. God only knows it has nothing to do with you.’
‘Then why have I been handcuffed inside this apartment so long that my ass feels like cottage cheese and my wrists are still numb? And why, why, why, why, why are you actually thinking of leaving with that freak show? For Christ’s sake, Reuben!’
‘Claire, listen to me.’ He took her by the shoulders, craning to look her in the eyes. ‘I don’t know the answers, and right now, I don’t care. Right now, my only priority is keeping you safe.’ Big talk. But he truly meant it. ‘That’s the only thing I care about.’
‘I don’t need you to keep me safe, I need you to make sense.’ Claire squeezed her eyes closed again, shaking her head vigorously. ‘I don’t accept any of this.’
A heavy hand pounded on the door, followed by a male voice: ‘Mr Wasserman. Please step out of the room now. Alone.’
‘I hear you,’ Reuben called. ‘I’m coming out.’
‘No!’ She grasped at his arm. ‘Stay right here. With me.’
He pulled her close. She didn’t fight him this time, seemingly unconcerned by his soiled trousers, still damp with accidental urine. He squeezed her tightly, drawing in a deep breath through the nose, filling his lungs with the scent of her hair. Before letting her go, Reuben put his lips close to her ear and whispered: ‘The minute we’re gone, drive straight to the police station on Cottage. Tell them I threatened your life and that you need protection. I love you.’
He broke away then, turning without looking at her, knowing that if he looked at her again, he really wouldn’t be able to leave. He opened the door and slipped out of the office to find Frost and his henchmen waiting in the hall.
‘Excellent,’ Frost said. He towered over Reuben like human scaffolding, taking him by the elbow in a hard, bony grip. When Frost stooped close, his breath smelled like charred parakeet. ‘If you continue following my instructions with this same sort of readiness, the two of us will get on just fine.’
Ben took First Floor IT west of the house, maybe three hundred yards out in the timber, to a clearing he’d probably have used himself, in the astronomical event that he ever felt inclined to go camping on his own property.
He had Gordon park the van at the edge of the shelterbelt and helped them haul in their gear on foot. Then he figured what the hell – as long as he was out here, he might as well stay and lend a hand.
So he clicked together tent poles for Anabeth until the other dummies started snickering, then he checked to see how Jeeter was making out. Then Jeremy couldn’t find his rain fly, and Devon ran out of stakes, and Ben finally ended up roving around the camp with a spotlight in his hand like some kind of supervising field comman – well, like George Peppard from The A-Team, he supposed.
It was a pretty October night, if nothing else: crisp clear air, starry sky. A bright silver moon made gnarly silhouettes of the half-bare trees. At some point, Frerking sidled up beside him, uncovered a pinner joint and said, ‘Any chance these woods are 420-friendly?’
‘I don’t see any cops,’ Ben told him. ‘Just don’t burn anything down, OK?’
‘Cool.’ A raised eyebrow. ‘You in?’
‘Nah. I’m on duty.’
‘Right on.’ Gordon palmed the joint and returned to the snarl of nylon and threaded fiberglass that would, somehow – hopefully at some point in the near future – become a tent. Meanwhile, speaking of burning things, Ben pulled a folding camp shovel out of somebody’s duffel bag and dug them a pit for the fire they’d surely be wanting out here in another hour or two.
When they were finally all set, he declined the opportunity to go out on ‘Night Ops’ with them. In fact, considering the rugged, hilly, unfamiliar terrain they’d be encountering in the dark, he recommended that they all do their more breakable leg bones a favor and stand down for the evening themselves.
Instead, they gathered around him in a loose semicircle, decked out in headlamps and full battle gear, bristling with CO2-powered small arms.
‘Come on, man,’ Jeremy said. ‘It’ll be fun.’
‘It’s a great way to vent your frustrations,’ Devon agreed.
Ben looked at him seriously. ‘Do I seem frustrated?’
‘Ummm … no?’
‘Oh, please,’ Abe said, benevolently taking Devon’s side. ‘Who isn’t?’
‘Yeah,’ said Ajeet. ‘And, also: don’t worry. It doesn’t really hurt that bad once you get going.’
‘That’s true,’ Jeremy said. ‘See?’
He leveled his weapon and, from a distance of perhaps four feet, fired a paintball directly into Devon’s crotch: thwap. Devon folded up like a cheap suit, collapsing to the ground in a camouflaged pile.
‘You asshole,’ he groaned, clutching himself.
Jeremy laughed. ‘I told you to wear a cup.’
Devon coughed out a war cry and fired a half dozen return shots as fast as he could pull the trigger, stitching Jeremy from belt to eye goggles: thock-thock-thock THWAP-THWAP-THWAP. The mist from exploding paintballs drifted in their lantern beams like blood squibs in a B-grade war movie.
Gordon became overwhelmed by the giggles and had to stoop to catch his breath, hands on his knees.
‘What’s so funny?’ Abe said, and shot him once in the ass: thwap.
‘Oh, no,’ Gordon said. ‘You did not.’
Soon the four of them were charging around the clearing, whooping and hollering, lighting each other up from all sides. Ben stood with Ajeet just beyond the fray, observing the candy-colored carnage in the lamplight. ‘You’re right. This is fun,’ he deadpanned. ‘I’m glad we did this.’
‘I hope we don’t run out of ammunition before tomorrow,’ Ajeet said.
As if in reply, Jeremy unleashed a barrage of rounds from behind the limited shelter of a nearby bur oak: thoka-thoka-thoka-thoka.
‘Eat, drink, and be merry, muchachos!’ he called out. ‘For tomorrow we diiiiiiieeeee …!’
There was no need to gather anything. Reuben was packed already. He offered zero resistance as Malcom Frost escorted him to his own front door, where he’d left his bags.
‘Mr Frost, I’ll go anywhere you take me,’ he said. ‘If it’s within my power, I’ll do anything you ask. If it’s not within my power, I’ll kill myself trying. Just please. Don’t hurt her.’
Frost relaxed his talon-like grip on Reuben’s elbow. Just a little. Reuben willed himself to look up into the man’s pale, ruined face. He tried his best to meet his new captor’s hooded eyes. With all the sincerity he could express in a single word, he spoke that single word one more time: ‘Please.’
Frost finally offered a beneficent smile. Reuben could have sworn that he detected a trace of pride in the man’s crepe-tissued expression – like a father noticing for the first time that his son
had become a man. In a gesture so deft and fluid that it didn’t even occur to Reuben to flinch, Frost removed one glove and placed a cool, moist palm upon Reuben’s cheek. Reuben thought of the fleshy, feather-gilled salamander he’d been forced to handle in high school science class, and it took everything he had to suppress a shudder.
‘You have my word,’ Frost told him. Then he leaned closer and added, softly: ‘She won’t feel a thing.’
At that same moment, Reuben caught sight of one of Frost’s goons peeling away, striding in the wrong direction, back down the darkened hallway toward the office. Drawing a silenced pistol from beneath his jacket as he moved.
‘No!’ Reuben shouted, shoving his way past Frost as the goon opened the office door and stepped inside.
Reuben heard the sound of Claire’s startled gasp. Heard the soft click of the latch as the goon – Aberdeen? Was it Aberdeen who’d poured the wine? – gently pulled the door closed behind him again.
‘No! Stop!’ Reuben shrieked again, his blood turning to icy slush in his veins. ‘Claire!’
He heard her scream from behind the door.
With that sound, his mind went blank. He heard his own roar, felt his throat tearing itself raw. Reuben clawed his way between Lucius and Frost, managing perhaps three running steps before a dark shadow fell upon him from above. The world’s biggest, nastiest wasp stung him deep in the side of his neck.
He must have gone unconscious in his tracks this time, Reuben would think later – half-wishing they’d killed him right there, half-wishing he’d taken one last look around this longtime, well-loved apartment, which he’d never again call home.
Either way, he’d have no recollection of hitting the floor.
EIGHT
Around six thirty on Saturday morning, Ben awoke to a faint but urgent pounding downstairs. He came down in his t-shirt and boxers and headed toward the door off the kitchen. There he found Anabeth Glass prancing on the chilly back porch, her breath coming out in puffs.
He opened the door. ‘Bathroom?’
‘Sorry!’ she said, pulling such a face on her way in that he probably would have laughed if he’d been more than half-awake. ‘Is this OK? I like being one of the guys but I gotta draw a line.’
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