Spitting Image

by Patrick LeClerc

  “I can destroy their careers. Their relationships. I won’t need to take lives when I can ruin them.”

  She sat back. “And all this could have been avoided. Could have even been pleasant. Now, you have one more chance. You help me cover our tracks, and you give me your sperm. In a cup this time. No more seduction attempts.”

  “Has the magic really gone out of this thing we have?” I asked.

  She stopped and just looked at me for a moment. “I could just have the boys come in and beat you for a while, you know. There are plenty of ways to hurt you and leave you useful And you heal fast, so even if they do get enthusiastic, it won’t be the end of the world.”

  I decided I really didn’t like her. I wasn’t going to give her what she wanted, partly out of plain old spite and party because I wouldn’t have any part of conceiving a person who would be raised by this family of psychopaths.

  My phone rang. I knew it was my phone because it played “London Calling” by the Clash, and nobody else has musical taste quite so well developed.

  She picked it up from the desk and smiled like a shark.

  “Watch him,” she said.

  Whoever was standing behind me put a blade against my cheek. “Call out and I’ll cut out your tongue,” he said.

  Amelia treated me to another second of her evil grin and pressed the screen of my phone. “Hello,” she said in my voice.

  Damn, I hated that they could do that.

  “Hi Sean,” Sarah’s voice came from the phone.

  “Hi Sweetie,” the doppelganger said, smiling at me. “What’s up?”

  I seethed. I strained against the ties on my wrists, but they weren’t going anywhere. I got a hold on my anger, saved it for later, promised it I’d pay it with interest.

  “I have some more information,” said Sarah. “But first, remind me. What’s the worst band of all time.”

  Amelia looked at me. I mouthed “Nickelback.” She rolled her eyes and spoke into the phone. “Nickelback, of course.”

  “Good to know it’s you,” said Sarah. “I’d rather give you all this in person. Say tomorrow. I get out of class at six. Let’s meet at the place you took me after the place we were just at.”

  The woman at the desk raised an eyebrow. I nodded. “Sounds great,” she said. “I’ll count the minutes.”

  That wasn’t anything like me.

  She ended the call. The man behind me took away the knife and stepped away.

  Amelia put my phone down and looked at me. “You need a better challenge question. Half the people in the world would guess Nickelback. But, if you didn’t think they were the world’s worst band, then maybe your genes wouldn’t be desirable. So where is this romantic little spot?”

  “The Taphouse in Riverdale,” I replied.

  She smiled. “Good. We’ll go see what your lady friend has found. Be nice and maybe nothing bad will happen to her at the meeting. I’ll be in touch.”

  She closed the laptop, swept my things into a bag, stood and walked out, followed by probably Brad, if I remembered right, leaving me zip-tied to a hard wooden chair.

  I took stock. Sarah had found something, which was good. She also caught my warning, with the wrong answer, so she knew something was wrong, or that my phone was in enemy hands. She’d been tipped off and would seek refuge, probably with Bob, so that was good.

  And best of all, my captor was going to go to the Taphouse wearing my face. Or send somebody there, at least.

  While it wasn’t a place I’d taken Sarah, it was a place where I’d be recognized. About six months before I’d met Sarah, I’d had a brief, explosive affair with a waitress who worked there. It was the kind of relationship where the good, fun crazy eventually gets outweighed by the bad, possessive, scary crazy. And I discovered that part of the reason she found me attractive was my keen ability to make her ex boyfriend insanely jealous. He was big and quick tempered and also worked at the Taphouse, as a bartender.

  So, I was willing to bet that whoever showed up wearing my likeness was in for an exciting reception. While that was all good fun, I figured it was only a matter of time before my captors decided to make me pay, or make my friends pay, so I had to get myself out of this place soon.

  That was a lot easier said than done, zip-tied to a chair. I tried shifting my weight, testing my bonds, but it was no good. Plastic ties aren’t like rope; there are no knots to pick at, you can’t stretch them by working at them, and they cut into you if you move too much. Good luck breaking them or cutting them by rubbing them against a splinter on the back of the chair, like every hero of film or literature.

  After a few minutes I gave it up. They wanted me alive and more or less intact. I figured this was the stick to the dubious carrot of siring the next generation of a family of psychopaths. They’d let me stew to show that they could make my life unpleasant, then they’d come back to deal.

  Knowing that didn’t make me any less uncomfortable. It only took a few minutes for me to develop an itch on the side of my nose. My ribs hurt where they had kicked me, and the belt across my chest made them worse, kept me from taking a deep breath. Then my hands and feet started to throb where the plastic ties cut the circulation, and then I started feeling sore where my body was pressed against the chair. After that I got thirsty. Soon my bladder started to complain. I wondered why my body couldn’t jut redistribute fluids, rather than simultaneously complaining of a burning parched throat and desperate need to empty a painfully swollen bladder.

  I’d been a prisoner a few times before, so this wasn’t really new, and I had been treated worse. From what I know of history, I think I got lucky that the Japanese hadn’t tried to take me prisoner when they overran my position at Guadalcanal, just stabbed me a lot. I got over that, not sure I’d have enjoyed three years in a prison camp.

  I wondered how long I’d been tied up. There was no clock in my limited field of vision, and no windows. Which I guess makes sense if you don’t want your neighbors looking over the fence into your interrogation room. With nothing but my thoughts to distract me, I couldn’t be sure if it had been hours or minutes.

  I tried to think of pleasant things, remembering good times, laughs, friends, lovers, to keep from worrying about what my captors would do next. Sarah was probably safe from direct physical danger for now, since I’d warned her, but there was nothing to stop them from blackening her reputation or damaging her career. Mine either, but my reputation was a bit dusky to begin with, and my career had an uncertain future even without their help.

  At length, the door opened and two heavies walked in. It was a relief from the monotony, but I wasn’t sure if they were going to beat me up again. They put a bucket on the floor and a paper takeout bag on the table. One of them stood back near the door and pulled out a knife. The second moved around behind me.

  “I’m sure you remember the taser,” he hissed in my ear. “Will’s going to cut your bonds so you can eat. If you try anything stupid, I get to tase you again, and then we tie you up and we eat your dinner. Understand?”

  “I do,” I croaked. I thought about a smart remark, but talking hurt, and I did really want a chance to get out of my bonds.

  Will came forward and sliced the plastic ties. Pain blossomed in my hands as the blood returned. I flexed my fingers, looked at them. They felt stiff and hurt like hell, but they moved and they looked the right color. He cut my ankles free as well, then unfastened the belt across my chest. I let him back away.

  I decided not to try to fight my way out for several reasons. I was out numbered, the guy behind me had a taser, and my hands and feet felt useless. If they were smart, they had locked the door and didn’t bring the key, relying on somebody outside to let them out. That way, even if I did overpower them, I’d still be locked in.

  “Go ahead,” said the voice behind me. “Stand up.”

  I made the slow and careful climb to standing. My feet felt like fiery balloons.

  “Good,” said the voice. “Use the bucke
t and eat.”

  The men walked out of the room and closed the door. I looked around and saw what was probably a camera on a high shelf. That meant digging a tunnel with the plastic takeout spoon was probably out.

  I lurched to the bucket first, struggling to undo my zipper with numb and shaky mitts. As I let my bladder drain, I thought how they would rather empty a bucket of piss than let me out of this room to get to the bathroom. They must be under very strict orders to keep me confined.

  That done, I made my way to the table and opened the bag. They hadn’t decided I was worth dirtying a pan, so somebody had made a run to the local Burger King. That was smart, at least. There were a million Burger Kings in the world, no way to narrow my location by the choice of restaurant. I looked in the bag for the receipt, just in the event they had gotten sloppy and left it. It would have had the store location. They hadn’t.

  The food was cold, but that didn’t mean much. It could have come from far away, or they could have just waited to give it to me. It looked like they had ordered off the Value Menu, so they weren’t trying to spoil me. There was a double cheeseburger, a small order of French fries and a bottle of water.

  I started with some water, slowly, to let my dry mouth and throat recover before starting on the food. It was fast food. And cheap, cold fast food, but I’d had worse. I’d eaten c-rations and horsemeat a time or two, and lived on a handful of captured rice a day on the Canal after the Navy ran off and left us.

  I wasn’t too worried about drugged food. Sure, they could have drugged it, but there was nothing I could do about it anyway, and there really isn’t a good reason to starve yourself. If a chance to escape came up, I wanted my strength.

  While I ate, I thought about escape. It’s pretty much a prisoner’s job to try to escape, but you need to be smart about it. Every failed attempt makes them tighten up security. It might get you beaten up as well, and there’s no good reason to take a beating you don’t have to. If I made them too upset, they might cripple me. I didn’t think they’d kill me, since the point was to get me to give them a sperm sample, and I don’t think I could do that dead, but with some broken bones, or even blinded I’d still be of use to them. I didn’t know how far they’d go, but it didn’t seem like they flinched from inflicting pain. Torture can be tricky, and they wouldn’t want me to die, but you can suffer a lot without dying, and I healed well enough to increase the margin of error. While I didn’t want to give in, I have no illusions. I’m not unbreakable. I’d reach a point where I’d give them what they wanted to make the pain stop.

  What I was more afraid of was that they’d destroy the lives of my friends. Better to give in than see any of them go to jail or lose their jobs or wind up outcast for something my enemies did with my friends’ faces on.

  None of that meant I could trust them to deal honestly. Once I wasn’t useful, then what? They could kill me, but dead bodies are inconvenient. They’re hard to get rid of, they cause talk, they invite suspicion. Probably they’d just frame me and impersonate enough witnesses that I’d spend a long time in jail. A life sentence for anybody is awful, for me it would be more so. And without the ability to move on, sooner or later, somebody would start doing the math on my age and identity.

  Just on principle, I tried the door. It was locked of course, but people have made worse mistakes than forgetting to lock a door, and if I hadn’t tried it, I’d never have forgiven myself. I leaned on it. Most interior doors are fairly light and flimsy, but this was a solid door, not something I was going to be able to kick down. I began to suspect that they’d used this room to hold people before. I leaned on the wall. If it was just sheetrock over studs, or lath and plaster, I could probably smash my way through that, given time. But it didn’t flex, so it was probably plywood.

  There wasn’t anything in the room except for a table, two chairs and the bucket. It was unlikely that I could break the door down with the table and fight my way out with a bucket of urine, but it would be a great story to tell later.

  I decided to keep that option in reserve.

  After I finished eating, the two heavies came back in, taking care to shut the door.

  “Back in your seat,” said the first.

  I was hoping it wouldn’t come to that. I thought about fighting, but there were two on them, and the door was locked. This didn’t seem like the right time. Every time you resist, they get a little more cautious, every time you submit, they drop their guard just a bit more.

  They’d captured me in the evening, somebody was supposed to meet Sarah the next evening. While I wasn’t sure how much time had gone by, they’d fed me once, and judging by the clock of hunger and thirst, that had been adequate. If they meant to keep me healthy, they’d have to feed and water me at least once more. If they untied me again, that might be the time to go all out.

  I decided this was not a good time to fight. Anything could happen in a day. Sarah should know something was wrong, she was smart enough to have contacted somebody.

  I grit my teeth, let them shove me back down into the chair and tie me again. I flexed while they tightened my bonds, so that when I relaxed they’d be a bit looser, but I didn’t make a show of it. Right now, I didn’t want to give them any reason to take extra precautions.

  They left me again, alone with my thoughts.

  I’ve heard people say that being alone is the worst part of captivity, the worst torture a person can suffer. I tend to think they say that kind of thing because they’ve never been physically tortured.

  Maybe that’s just me, but I really don’t like pain, and I’ve spent a lot of time with myself, and I’m pretty good company.

  The thing that can drive you insane is worrying about things you can’t do anything about. Make a few decisions, like how you might try to escape, then stop thinking about it. Don’t worry about the world outside your cell. You may as well worry about conditions on the moon for all the effect it will have.

  My hands didn’t hurt so much this time, since I’d managed to keep the bindings looser. There was still no chance I was slipping out of them, but it was nice that they weren’t cutting into me.

  I tried to pass the minutes remembering the good times. Drinking with Alexandre Dumas, laughing at Mark Twain’s quick wit, just trying to keep up with Oscar Wilde.

  I don’t know how long it was before the door opened again. Not very long, judging by the fact I wasn’t hungry. There was no way they could have already gone to the fake meeting with Sarah. I wondered what they planned. More questioning, maybe.

  As far as I could tell, the same two men walked in. They wore unpleasant smiles. The kind of smiles people wrongly compare to wolves. Wolves don’t have evil smiles. They either smile like dogs, out of happiness, or they bare their fangs, which is just wolf for “why don’t you leave now, before you get hurt.”

  No, this was the smile of a bully. Of a man who was going to do something nasty to you, who knew you couldn’t fight back and took unholy pleasure in that fact. The kind of smile that spoke of a mean, petty spirit who had learned that power corrupts and saw it not as a cautionary tale, but an added bonus. It was the smile of a torturer or a prison camp guard or a middle manager.

  I waited for one of them to speak. There probably wasn’t anything I could say that would make things easier, but plenty that would make things worse for me.

  “I hope you have had time to consider your situation,” said the first man. Brad, I think. “We have shown you how things can be somewhat pleasant, if you co-operate, or mildly unpleasant if you do not. We are here to explain that things can be more intense in either direction.”

  “You mean if I’m really good, next time you’ll get me the meal with the toy inside?”

  I knew as the words left my mouth that it was a stupid act of defiance, but that’s a lesson that never really stuck, and I hated Brad’s brand of petty evil. More than real, big evil probably. At least history’s true monsters had some vision, some scope to their cruelty. Underlings like Br
ad were content to fawn and grovel for scraps and use their small authority to indulge their tiny power fantasies.

  Putting an entire city to the sword is evil, and certainly worse in absolute terms, but at least it’s a bold sin. It’s making a point. Cromwell was certainly more evil than Brad, but he stood up and owned his evil. I’m sure Brad would claim he was just obeying orders.

  Evil cries out for justice, but petty abuse of authority makes my skin crawl, and I’ve never learned to suppress my contempt for it.

  Which probably explains why I’m so bad at getting promoted, or staying promoted.

  At the end of the day, though, you need to live with yourself.

  Brad provided a counter argument when he punched me in the nose. Not too hard, but enough to make me see stars and feel blood running.

  “See?” he said. “I can make it more unpleasant. Please, feel free to see just how unpleasant we can make things.”

  I bit back a witty reply. I was pretty sure I could make him hit me again, but where was the challenge in that?

  “Ah. You can hold your tongue. You may be capable of learning after all.” He stepped up and pulled a bag over my head.

  I felt the chair lifted and carried out. This couldn’t be good. I decided that next time the ties were off, I was definitely going to make a break for it.

  We couldn’t have gone very far when we passed through a door into an echoing room. They set the chair down on what sounded like tiles.

  Tiled rooms seldom meant that anything good was going to happen. Bringing a prisoner into a room where you could hose all the blood down the drain generally didn’t bode well.

  “Now we are going to ask you some questions,” said a voice. “How helpful you are will determine how pleasant your stay with us will be for you.”

  There were plenty of things I wanted to say, but none that would help so I kept quiet.

  Suddenly, the chair lurched over backward, crashing into something that rang like a gong. I was now leaning backward as the back of the chair rested on something.