Man of Wax (Man of Wax Trilogy)

by Robert Swartwood

  The knock came once more, insistent.

  I went to the window and peeked through the curtains. It was a young woman, dressed in a blue uniform. Her truck was parked just outside my room.

  I glanced down at the bible on the table, its crusty pages still opened to the Book of Job, then went over and opened the door.

  “Benjamin Anderson?” She was chewing something that smelled like strawberry bubblegum. She held a package in her hands, a plain brown box that looked as if it could hold a pair of my sneakers. Her face was plain but somehow pretty, marked by a smattering of freckles. “This is for you.”

  “For me.”

  She nodded, handed me the package, and grabbed an electronic device she’d been keeping underneath her arm. She extracted a black stylus from the device and handed both to me. I just stood there for a moment with the package in my hands, the box that didn’t feel as if had a pair of sneakers in it at all. No, it was much lighter, which for some reason felt wrong—shouldn’t it at least be heavy?

  I set the package on the ground and grabbed the device, signed my name and handed it back.

  “Thanks,” she said, the word clearly automatic, then punched a few buttons on the device and turned away.

  I watched her go for a few seconds, walking down the steps to the parking lot, pulling herself up into the truck. When I finally felt strong enough to pick the box up off the ground and take it to the bed, where I set it down on top, I realized the door was still open. I went to it, peered outside again. I smelled the ocean, felt the salt in the air, then shut the door and turned back around.

  The box just sat there, staring back at me.

  Waiting.

  5

  I had no scissors, no knife, not even the jagged edge of one of my keys to open the tape that kept the box sealed. Instead I had to work one of the ends with my fingernail, working it back and forth, until I had enough to start tearing it away. Minutes passed. I was aware of the time, knew that I was again stalling, but I felt more inclined to do so now than before. The four words on the back of the bathroom door and what they’d been written in was enough to prove that this was no dream, no nightmare, which meant I had no reason to kid myself into thinking whatever was in this box wasn’t real as well.

  The first thing I saw when I had the box open was that it was filled with Styrofoam peanuts. I reached in, hesitantly, imagining the angry tips of knives and syringes, the tiny mouths of spiders—but what I touched first was a leather wallet. Pieces of Styrofoam rained down around the box onto the comforter as I pulled it out.

  I opened the wallet and found only money inside. No credit cards, no driver’s license, nothing else. It definitely wasn’t my wallet, though—the wallet my dad had given me for high school graduation, filled with a thousand dollars, a small fortune to a man who only made twenty thousand dollars a year and who had been saving this gift ever since I was in middle school.

  The money in this wallet came to five hundred dollars. All of it twenties. I set them aside and reached back in the box, a little less hesitant now. I wasn’t expecting any insects or glass shards to bite me anytime soon.

  Next thing I pulled out was a cell phone. It was a small simple black phone—half screen, half keypad. There was no company name on it, no provider logo. There was only one button on the top, presumably the power button, and that was it. No volume switch, no slot to plug in a power adapter, nothing. A note taped to its screen said in typed letters TURN ME ON.

  I didn’t hesitate at all, pressing the power button and watching the phone light up.

  The phone’s main screen was blank, offering no menu or contact list or even clock. Then, quite suddenly, the phone started vibrating. On the screen, the words INCOMING CALL flashed on and off.

  I immediately went to press the green send button and hesitated. Someone was calling me but I didn’t want to answer it. For all I knew it could be Jen, telling me that this was all just some joke, one big surprise, but a feeling in my gut told me that wasn’t the case, just as that same feeling kept telling me not to answer the phone.

  But I knew I had no choice. I’d been sent this package for a reason. I’d followed the simple directions in turning the phone on for a reason. Now I had to answer it to find the sum of those reasons.

  I hit the send button, placed the phone to my ear, and said, “Hello?”

  “Benjamin Anderson,” said the voice on the other end, a cheerful yet somehow unctuous voice that I was already beginning to hate. “Greetings.”

  “Who the hell is this?”

  There was a pause, and though I had no reason to suspect this, I knew the speaker on the other end was grinning.

  The voice said, “You can call me Simon. I’m sure you’ve played Simon Says before. Because that’s exactly what we’ll be playing now.”

  “The fuck are you talking about?”

  “Didn’t you already get the message? You know, the one on the back of the bathroom door?”

  At that moment it was as if time had stopped. I even glanced at the clock on the bedside table, as if to confirm this fact, but it was digital and didn’t show the seconds so it was still stuck on 9:38. I could feel the bathroom door behind me, urging me to look at it, to maybe even walk over and open it so I could step inside, stare again at what had been placed there.

  “What the fuck is going on here?”

  My pulse had quickened; I could hear the blood pounding in my ears—then, just as fast, the low chuckling of the man on the other end of the line.

  “Just like the message says, Ben. May I call you Ben? I hope so. It’ll make things easier if I do. Just think of me as a friend. That’s probably the only way you and your family are going to get out of this alive.”

  I was staring at the alarm clock, at those red glowing numbers reading 9:38. They now changed to 9:39.

  Simon said, “I know this is difficult for you, Ben,” and I hated to hear what sounded like sympathy in his voice. “It’s always difficult for a new player. But once you accept there’s nothing else you can do, it gets easier. Trust me, it does.”

  “I don’t ...” I swallowed, shook my head. “I don’t believe this.”

  “It doesn’t matter what you believe. Nowadays belief means nothing. Seeing, however, is everything. Go ahead; look in the box. There’s something at the very bottom.”

  I wanted nothing to do with this fucking box anymore. In fact, I wanted to throw the goddamn cell phone across the room, smash it against the wall. But I was powerless, something I knew not just from what this psychopath was telling me, but from that small internal voice that always speaks to us when we’re in a time of struggle, that gives us the best advice possible. That voice told me I really had no choice in this matter, and that if I ever wanted to see Jen and Casey again, I should—and God help me for even thinking it—do as Simon says.

  “Okay,” I said, both to the voice on the other end and to the voice inside my head.

  I reached into the box, felt through the peanuts, until I touched something at the very bottom. It was a piece of paper, that’s all it was, but when I brought it out, more Styrofoam peanuts raining onto the comforter, I saw it wasn’t a piece of paper at all.

  As it turned out, I was seeing my wife and daughter much sooner than I’d anticipated. In the glossy photograph they were both staring back at me, gags in their mouths. The camera’s flash could be seen in the tears falling from their eyes.

  “No,” I whispered, staring down at my family that stared helplessly back at me. “You sick son of a bitch.”

  “Watch it, Ben. Remember—call me Simon. And right now, you’re going to do everything I say, or else.”

  “Or else what?”

  The red glowing numbers on the clock changed from 9:39 to 9:40, proving that time had in fact not stopped.

  Simon chuckled. “Or else they die.”

  6

  As there was no apparent key for the room, I didn’t even bother locking the door. I just grabbed the money on the bed a
nd shoved it in the wallet, and shoved that wallet into my left front pocket. Then I shoved the cell phone into my right front pocket.

  Outside, the three vehicles—the rusted Dodge, the pickup, the van—were still parked in their places. I marched straight toward the Dodge, the one that Simon said would be unlocked. I glanced at the manager’s office on the other side of the parking lot, thinking for some reason that Kevin was inside watching me. I should have taken that credit card receipt. I should have looked more closely at that scrawled signature. Anybody could forge a signature. It didn’t take much.

  For a moment I even considered veering off course toward the office. What I’d do once I got inside I had no clue, but the idea of reaching across the counter and squeezing the clerk’s neck until there was nothing left to squeeze was quite appealing. While nearly all of this didn’t make sense, some of it was beginning to, and Kevin (if that was even his real name) was one of the things that stuck out as being WRONG. Just like the message in blood on the bathroom door, the picture of Jen and Casey now folded and stuffed in my back pocket, and the fact that yesterday I’d been sitting peacefully at home in Lanton and now found myself all the way across the country.

  But I didn’t end up going to the office. Maybe things would have been different had I gone along with that initial thinking. Then again, maybe things would have just turned out the same. It’s impossible to say, even now, but I continued toward the Dodge, glancing briefly through the dust-coated windows. There was nothing in the back, nothing even in the front. I wanted to check the trunk but knew it didn’t matter. Not like it was going to change anything, and Simon had already given me a deadline, telling me the first part of the game was to get onto 101 and head south. Don’t call the police, don’t call the FBI, don’t even call the boy scouts—“Do you see a pattern yet?” he’d said. When around others—no matter if they were children or geriatrics—I was to act like nothing was wrong. Just a man going about his business like normal, nope nothing wrong here, thanks for asking. Do all that, Simon said before he disconnected, and as long as I played along with the game and followed the rules, I would see Jen and Casey again.

  “Alive?” I’d asked, and I could almost see the smile on his formless face as he said, “Of course, Ben. What do you take me for—a monster?”

  • • •

  THE DRIVER’S DOOR squeaked angrily when I opened it. Hot air rushed out. The outside temperature itself wasn’t that bad, maybe mid-eighties. I could still hear the ocean beyond the motel, the seagulls crying out in the sky. The traffic continued on the highway, none of its drivers remotely aware just what kind of hellish circus I was being put through. Well, good for them, and fuck you too.

  I got inside and shut the door. The seat squeaked the way old fake leather does when it gets hot. The car reeked of dust and hot rubber, and I rolled down the window for some fresh air.

  Simon had said the key was under the seat, but I didn’t reach for it yet. He’d also said there was a surprise for me in the glove compartment. Just a surprise, nothing else, so I should obey the speed limit and not do anything stupid, because there was no registration or proof of insurance. Still, whatever that surprise may be, I didn’t want to look. I was still thinking about the trunk, about what might be inside it. Images kept invading my mind, grisly snapshots of my daughter’s twisted body: her legs snapped backward, her arms bent at awkward angles. Or maybe it was Jen’s body instead, in all the same positions, just taking up more space.

  Never mind, I told myself, shaking my head and blinking the images away.

  I reached down and found the key, right where Simon had said. For some reason I didn’t expect the engine to start, figured I’d have to try it a few times before it finally turned over, but it roared to life at once. I let it idle for a few moments, feeling the entire thing tremble around me, which made me realize I hadn’t yet begun to tremble myself.

  “That’s strange,” I murmured. I held my right hand out in front of me. Nope, it was just there in front of my face, completely still.

  The gas gauge told me I had three quarters of a tank left. The odometer read close to eighty-seven thousand miles. The radio was turned off. My eyes still kept darting at the glove compartment.

  After about a minute or two, when I was certain the car wasn’t teasing me, I backed up and started down the drive toward the highway. I glanced only once at the manager’s office. For some reason I expected to see a face watching me from one of the windows, the face of a man who may or may not be Kevin, but there was nobody there. Traffic continued toward me, headed south, and I waited a minute before there was a break large enough for me to pull out.

  • • •

  THOUGH I WAS within just a few miles of the coast, it was another fifteen miles or so before I passed through a place called Crescent City and the highway got close enough and I saw past the houses and trees and tall grass. There it was, the Pacific Ocean, stretching toward the horizon. I’d never seen it before, having always been satisfied with the Atlantic. It really looked no different. Jen had been out to California many times before, back when she was younger and her life was different. Once she married me everything changed for her; she went from being unbelievably rich to being moderately poor. No more glitzy and exotic vacation spots where everyone spoke another language. No more staying in famous and elegant hotels where the help knew your name and smiled and nodded and wished you a good day. No more flying first class, or even coach. For our honeymoon we hadn’t even gone to Florida, where most middle-income couples go. Instead we’d gone to Virginia Beach, and that was only because it was in reasonable driving distance and just within our budget. Thinking of it I remembered our wedding night, while we lay together in our hotel room, and I had broken down, felt like a complete asshole and cried because I couldn’t give her everything she’d had before, and she had held me and told me everything was fine, that she loved me and didn’t care if I had no money at all.

  “If you could only see me now, Jen,” I whispered, not even realizing it until a few seconds later and feeling quite ridiculous. Then I thought: The only money I have now is five hundred bucks. That and—

  And again my eyes darted to the glove compartment. I decided enough was enough. Keeping my left hand on the wheel, I leaned over and—now realizing I was trembling—opened it.

  7

  I’d been driving for close to an hour and a half when I decided to stop for food. My stomach had been growling ever since I passed through Redwood National Park. I’d considered pulling off the highway to find something then but kept remembering what Simon had told me, how I had a deadline. And so I continued driving, ignoring the Pacific even when it was nearly touching me. I kept my eyes forward, on the cars in front of me, on the cars passing me. I maintained my speed at an even sixty. The Dodge had no cruise control, and my legs were starting to cramp. I kept my mind on Jen and Casey, on the prospect of seeing them again. It was the only thing that kept me going, the only thing that helped me to forget the revolver in the glove compartment ... that was until, every five minutes or so, my eyes would dart once more to my right and I would remember all over again.

  My mind tried to process everything that was happening to me, formulate some kind of reasonable explanation. But it was impossible. There were no numbers in the phone, no way for me to contact Simon if and when I needed to.

  And so I drove.

  And drove.

  And drove some more, until finally my stomach’s steady growl became a roar. This was when I spotted a sign for Arcata Airport, then a few moments later saw a plane making its descent from the pale blue sky—a pale blue that nearly matched my wife’s and daughter’s eyes.

  Five minutes later I passed a sign for McDonald’s, where I eventually ended up. The parking lot was fairly full, even for a Monday in early October, but what the hell did I know? I pulled the Dodge into a space, got out and stretched my legs, my arms, my back. It felt good being outside, even if it was in a strange place. At least the Golde
n Arches were a comfort, an Americanized symbol that said in not so many words it didn’t care who I was, where I was going, or what I’d done; as long as I had money, they had grease-fried food with my name on it.

  But when I started toward the entrance I found myself stopping almost immediately. Staring at the building and its familiar white and red and yellow motif caused an ache in my heart. I suddenly remembered all the times Casey had playfully pestered me and Jen to take her to McDonald’s, how she wanted, needed, a Happy Meal. Sometimes we gave in; sometimes we didn’t. We’d decided early on to keep our daughter away from unhealthy foods, though there had been a series of weekends last year where we went to McDonald’s every Saturday, after Casey proudly proclaimed McDonald’s hotcakes were her all-time favorite food in the whole wide world. So Jen and I had decided to make a morning of it, sitting out on the colorful tables of the Playland, surrounded by the watchful gazes of Ronald McDonald and Mayor McCheese, Grimace and the Hamburglar, watching our daughter happily eat her syrup-drenched hotcakes. Sipping our coffees and clasping hands beneath our table, we talked about whatever—movies, books, Jen’s recent cases, Casey’s upcoming preschool—both so happy to be together as a family and warmed by the simple knowledge that we would always be together, all three of us, no matter what.

  • • •