The Inner Circle (Man of Wax Trilogy)

by Robert Swartwood

  Mason went silent then, his gaze now focused on his hands. Slowly, so very slowly, his eyes shifted up to meet mine. They were completely sincere.

  I sat quietly for a moment, thinking. Then I stood up and reached into my pocket and approached the bars.

  “A lot of things have changed in the past twenty-four hours,” I said, withdrawing the single key from my pocket. “What’s going to happen in the next twenty-four hours, I have no idea. But I figure at this point, nobody should be locked up.”

  I slid the key into the lock but paused, cocked my head at Mason.

  “But try to keep your anger under control. Because I am not joking when I say I won’t think twice putting two in your head.”

  Mason nodded solemnly. Then, slowly, a grin spread across his face.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Nothing. It’s just that doesn’t sound like the guy I read about in your story.”

  “Yeah, well, didn’t you figure that part out yet? That guy died two years ago.”

  And I turned the key.

  42

  The inscription on my wife’s wedding ring read TO JEN, MY OTHER HALF. It referred to a story she had once told me weeks before we got married, a story going back to the beginning of time. A story of love.

  It was the same story I found myself thinking about again and again from that day forward, to the day we got married, to the day we had Casey. It was those halcyon days where I truly believed my life was complete, an expensively crafted model with no missing pieces, where everything worked just right. Of course there were times when Jen and I had our disagreements, where Casey misbehaved and had to be scolded. I’m not even going to try to kid myself that none of that ever happened. But even then, on those rare occasions when I became frustrated, angry, perturbed to the point where I’d wonder just what the hell kind of mistake had I made, I would think about Jen’s wedding ring, about the inscription, and I would somehow know that everything was all right.

  I thought about that every day, from the day my family was taken away from me until now, this very evening, alone in my bedroom. Lying in my bed and staring at the only thing I had that belonged to my wife, which had been shipped to me in a box along with her savagely cut off finger.

  I always kept it at the farmhouse. I never took it on missions, for fear that I would lose it. At nights I would place it beneath my pillow, as if my wife’s spirit were somehow trapped in that white gold, and that during the night, while I slept, her spirit would meet me in my dreams.

  It was nearly ten o’clock. Everyone else was downstairs, watching TV or playing cards. I had wanted to be alone so I just lay there with the lamp on behind my bed, moving the ring between my fingers, holding it at just the right angle so I could make out those five words.

  There was a soft knock at the door. Maya stepped inside. Wordlessly she moved to the other bed against the wall and sat down, pulling her feet up onto the bed and hugging her knees.

  “Hi,” she said.

  “Hi,” I said.

  That was it. Neither of us said anything else. I still had Jen’s ring in my hand, unconsciously moving it around with my fingers. When I realized what I was doing, I stopped the motion, made the ring disappear into a fist, and went to place it back underneath my pillow.

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  I looked up at her.

  “I don’t mind, Ben. You know that.”

  I replaced the ring anyway. Sat back and pulled up my feet, hugged my knees, both of us less than ten feet apart but the distance feeling so much farther.

  Maya said, “You ran away yesterday.”

  My first instinct was to deny this claim, but I nodded instead.

  “Do you know why you did it?”

  “I wanted to go back with the Kid.”

  “Please, Ben. You can lie to yourself, but don’t lie to me.”

  The lamp by my head was getting hot. I adjusted it, moving it so the glow illuminated the other side of the room.

  Maya said, “I think I know what I want to do. You know, once we all officially disband.”

  I said nothing and just stared back at her, watched the thin profile of her jaw as she spoke.

  “A while back, the Kid offered to help me find my tribe. He said with his skill it shouldn’t be too difficult. I told him at the time not to worry about it, but now ... now I’m ready. I want to go back to Washington. I want ... I want to find my family.”

  She wiped at her eyes, though I wasn’t quite certain there were any tears.

  She said, “Do you think ...” but then looked away, bit her lower lip.

  “Do I think what?”

  Refusing to meet my eyes, she slowly shook her head.

  I dropped my feet off the bed, leaned forward, started to get up but stayed in place. Jen’s ring was always in this bedroom, always when I was here with Maya, either holding her in bed or kissing her, and I had never felt as strong a sense of betrayal as I felt now.

  “Maya,” I said softly. “Do I think what?”

  “Forget it.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Please, Ben, just forget I said anything.”

  “Tell me,” I repeated, this time with more force.

  She wiped again at her eyes, swallowed hard. “Do you think you ... you might, I don’t know, want to come with me?”

  The question hung heavy in the air. We stared at each other, neither of us wanting to be the first to blink.

  I blinked. “Maya, I—”

  “Don’t.”

  “But I—”

  “Please, Ben. Don’t.”

  She was looking away again, the absent tears now visible on her face, falling down her cheeks, causing her eyes to glimmer in the dimness.

  I stood up from the bed. I went and sat down beside her. I tried to hold her but she pulled away, averted her face from mine.

  “Maya,” I said, and she continued to shake her head, to try to pull away from me.

  Suddenly she stood up, started toward the door.

  I got up and went after her, grabbed her arm and pulled her back, turned her around so I could see her face.

  She was staring down at the floor, still shaking her head.

  “Maya, look at me.”

  Slowly she raised her head, exposing the fresh tears on her face. “Yes?”

  “I would love to go with you.”

  Her face broke again, this time into a smile, and it looked strange there in the dark of the room, her beautiful smile accompanied by the tears lining her face, by what had been only moments ago fear and embarrassment and dejection filling her eyes.

  “Yeah?” she said, wiping away the tears.

  “Yeah,” I said, and took her free hand in mine, gave it three slight squeezes.

  We stood there then, watching each other’s eyes, neither of us moving, neither of us saying a word, both of us just lost in the moment. And it was a perfect moment, the kind nobody can take away, a kind of comfortable peace where we both knew that, despite everything else, we were going to be okay.

  Then the Kid called the next morning, shattering that fragile perfection.

  43

  They were waiting for me.

  I’d taken Mason to the shooting range to give him some practice with a rifle—why exactly I wasn’t sure, as the vote to disband was official, but I needed to do something to keep him occupied for the time being—when Drew called me on the radio and told me to hurry back. So we hurried back, each of us on a four-wheeler, and I left Mason in the barn to put everything away as I hurried inside and down the basement steps to find Ronny and Drew and Jesse and Maya huddled around the main computer.

  The webcam was set up and the Kid was on screen.

  “Well,” he said when I’d joined them, “about fucking time.”

  Ronny released one of his long and weary sighs. He was the only one sitting down, right in front of the computer.

  “Okay, Kid,” he said. “Show us what you got.”

  Th
e Kid looked away at one of his other monitors. There was the sudden sound of his quick typing and then the screen suddenly changed to show the profile of a man.

  “He’s listed as the Abortionist,” the Kid said, and immediately Ronny sighed again, Drew cursed under his breath, Jesse shook his head, and Maya looked at me.

  The page was the usual page used in Simon’s game. The one that showed a picture of the latest player, that listed his hobbies, his ambitions, what he had once been in life before it was all taken away. No real names, only links to show the family or friends or whoever had been taken.

  I asked the Kid, “How long ago did this come up?”

  “Less than an hour.”

  “Do you know the location yet?”

  Ronny shifted around in his seat to glare back at me. I ignored him, continued studying the page.

  The Abortionist looked to be in his thirties. He had a sharp nose, square-jaw, short reddish hair. His hobbies listed fishing, reading, playing video games with his sons. He was a huge Clint Eastwood fan, especially the early westerns. His occupation was listed as a former doctor who had lost his license in the past couple years but who still occasionally performed abortions for women who could not afford to go to a real clinic.

  He was currently playing to save the lives of his wife and two sons.

  “Actually, yeah,” the Kid said, sounding almost surprised.

  I asked him why this surprised him.

  “When he left the motel room he woke up in and got in his car and started out, he passed a highway sign almost immediately.”

  “So where was he?”

  “In Las Vegas. That’s the New Mexico one, not Nevada. Not that far away from you guys as the crow flies.”

  Ronny cleared his throat and said, “Unfortunately the crow isn’t flying from here anymore.”

  “I’ll do it,” I said.

  Ronny twisted his neck so quickly in my direction I wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d given himself whiplash. “The heck you will.”

  Again I ignored him. “Kid, keep an eye on this guy. Also send me as much info as you can.”

  Even though the monitor still showed the Abortionist’s bio page, I could hear the Kid smiling when he said, “You got it.”

  Ronny said, “You’re not doing this, Ben. We voted. We—”

  “You voted. You don’t have to go.”

  “It could be a trap.”

  This gave me pause. My sense of purpose had been waning the past couple of days, my soul drifting on an endless sea of doubt and despair. But this right here—a new player in need of saving—was something I could finally get behind.

  “Maybe,” I said. “Then again, maybe not.”

  “He’ll have escorts.”

  “They always have escorts.”

  “But Carver—”

  “Is dead.” I held Ronny’s stare. “Anybody else in?”

  Maya said, without hesitation, “I am.”

  It took Jesse a couple more seconds before he said, “Me too.”

  The Abortionist’s bio page disappeared and it was the Kid again. “Who’s all in?”

  I said, “Me, Maya, and Jesse.”

  The Kid nodded and started typing. “All right. Head out now and—”

  “What the hell,” Drew said. “I’m in too. That sound good to you, Ben?”

  “That sounds great.” I looked at Ronny. “So how about you? Last chance.”

  Ronny, who looked ready to have a conniption, just shook his head.

  “Okay then, four it is.” The Kid grinned back at us. “Let’s fucking do this shit.”

  44

  We caught up with the Abortionist less than twenty hours later. By that time it was ten o’clock in the morning. This was in Arizona, speeding down Interstate 10, headed west toward Tucson.

  So far the Abortionist had jumped through a number of Simon’s standard hoops.

  The first was lifting a Milky Way bar at a gas station. Just like it had been for me, like it was for many new players, a way to ease into the game.

  The second wasn’t so easy.

  The Abortionist drove south to Las Cruces, where he was instructed to enter a nondescript brick building on the outskirts of the city. Inside he found a woman strapped to a delivery table, her legs in stirrups. She was pregnant.

  Simon told the Abortionist over speakerphone, “You want to see your wife and sons again? You want to see them alive? Then do what you do best, Clark. Give this woman an abortion.”

  Problem was this woman didn’t want an abortion. She was awake for the entire procedure, screaming and crying, pleading with him to leave her and her baby alone. After a while she passed out, though whether from the pain or mere exhaustion it was impossible to say.

  The Abortionist—or Clark, as Simon called him—didn’t stay around to revive her. He went into the bathroom, fell to his knees, and threw up all over the floor. He lay there sobbing for about five minutes before Simon called to tell him that he had done well, and that if he had any human decency left in his bones, he would put the woman out of her misery before she woke back up.

  The Abortionist didn’t do this. He left as quickly as possible, speeding to the plush hotel room that awaited him, where he threw up again in the bathroom and cried himself to sleep.

  In the morning he was back on the road, heading west into Arizona.

  Drew and Jesse were driving lead in the SUV, Maya and myself following about a half mile behind in a Ford Focus. The plan was to do a Smash and Grab but the opportunity hadn’t yet presented itself.

  The thing you have to understand when catching up to a new player is just how long and aggravating the process becomes. From the Kid’s initial call to the actual moment when you get the target within your sights, a lot of chips have to fall just right into place. Because the target is constantly moving, a game piece among thousands, and you have no idea where the next stop will be. So you wait, and you hope, and you just keep driving toward whatever location the Kid directs you.

  And here’s the real kicker—sometimes the Kid isn’t even sure where the target is half the time. He has the tedious and thankless job of sitting in front of his computer monitor and watching every single detail of every single frame. Looking for clues that will help, searching for some sign that will give him a location, and once he has that location he maps it out, triangulates the most possible place, and that is where the target is at that moment in time.

  But time is relative.

  For one, the game the Kid is watching might not even be a live feed. It might be delayed a day, an hour, even a minute. And while minutes don’t seem like much, they can make a huge difference when the target comes to one of those major serpentine highways, the kind that rises and falls, directing its drivers toward different points of the continental United States.

  Also—and here’s the thing you really have to remember—the Kid is human. He makes mistakes. He has to eat, sleep, shit, which means he doesn’t have time to sit in front of the computer monitor every waking minute of the day.

  Which means, sometimes, luck becomes a major factor.

  Determination is important, too. The constant and steady need to see this through and never give up, no matter what happens.

  Because there have been times when we’ve lost targets. When we’ve traveled day and night, through towns and cities and states, only to find that the target’s game has already come to an end.

  But now here we were in Arizona, the sky cloudless and blue, the sun heavy and hot, the Focus’s windows down letting in the wind. I had driven for the first leg of the trip; Maya had taken over for the second.

  I didn’t know about Maya, but I was doing a lot of thinking.

  A lot of thinking.

  Trying to wrap my brain around this whole mess, from what happened in Miami Beach to the here and now. Not even a week had passed but it seemed so much longer, months even, that what we had considered a lengthy abeyance was nothing more than a short break.

 
First there was Carver’s death, his last word boojum. Boojum then being a word of great mystery, some thinking it complete gibberish, others thinking it some secret key or code.

  And it had been a key of sorts, one that lead us to an assistant director of the FBI, who claimed he didn’t know anything, which, according to the Kid’s nifty program, was a lie.

  Even so, where did that leave the rest of us? Carver was still dead, we had voted to disband, Ian had taken off, and others were soon to follow.

  So what were the four of us doing out here now in the bleak and inhospitable Arizona desert?

  I wasn’t sure about Maya or Drew or Jesse, but I was thinking about that lone candle in the darkness, the wick becoming shorter and shorter. I was thinking about how the only way for evil to triumph is that good men do nothing, and I wasn’t ready for that. Not yet. Not while I still had the power to do something.

  Drew called. He said the target was turning off the interstate, heading south.

  I started to relay this message to Maya, how we were getting off at the next exit, when I suddenly heard a familiar high-pitched whine.

  The radio was off, the only sound that of the wind raging through the opened windows, but the noise was distinct, coming from behind us.

  I quickly turned in my seat.

  A black sport bike—a Ducati no less—was racing up the left-hand lane.

  It was there for only an instant before passing us by, doing at least one hundred, disappearing down the highway and letting the high-pitched whine fade away into nothingness.

  45