Man of Wax (Man of Wax Trilogy)

by Robert Swartwood

  “Phillip Fagerstrom?” I said, pointing down the corridor as if I wasn’t sure where I was going, and she smiled, told me which room number, and I thanked her and continued on. Next thing I knew I was standing in front of his room, this man I had never seen a day before in my life. His door was open and he was somewhere inside. It was dark in there, like he had all the lights off, and I wondered what would happen if it turned out he was dead. If his heart had just decided to give out in the last couple of minutes and nobody was aware of it, not even the redhead at the desk, and I would be the one who found him. Would I even say anything? Or would I just leave, let them figure it out on their own?

  I waited a very long time before stepping inside. I saw immediately that no, he wasn’t dead, and that no, all the lights weren’t off. His TV was on, but it was muted. Dim light bounced off where he lay in his bed as I approached him. Simon had told me to come here, to ask for this man, to come to his room, but that was it.

  I could barely see him from where he lay underneath his sheet. The urge to turn on the lamp beside the bed was strong, but I didn’t want to touch it. I didn’t want to touch anything. Not the two framed pictures of what looked like grandchildren—three of them, two boys and a girl—or the American Legion clock. So far there was no physical evidence of my presence here and I wanted to keep it that way.

  Phillip Fagerstrom finally acknowledged me. His eyes moved slowly from the television to search my face. He’d probably thought I was one of the nurses, or else someone else on staff, and the fact that he couldn’t recognize me must have startled him. But he made no movement, no sound at all, and just lay there staring back at me. The majority of his body was covered by sheets so all I saw was his neck and his face, both wrinkled and gray in the dimness.

  The cell phone vibrated in my pocket. I let it go on, for some reason thinking it wrong to answer in front of this man. I began to worry what would happen if the woman downstairs decided to make a surprise visit to see how things were going between nephew and uncle.

  The phone vibrated a fifth time and I pulled it out of my pocket.

  “Why am I here?”

  “Well,” Simon said, “that’s up to you. This is where the true reality part comes into play. I’m not forcing you to do anything, not like before. This time I’m giving you the choice. One of the choices is easy, the other is hard. I’m not going to tell you which is what.”

  I just stood there, waiting. The light from the TV continued to bounce around the room. Out in the corridor, in another room, one of the residents began coughing violently, as if hacking up a vital body part.

  When I realized Simon was waiting on me, I said, “What are my choices?” My hushed voice sounded strange in the room. Phillip Fagerstrom continued to stare back at me.

  “First tell me what you think of the old man.”

  Across the hall, the cougher continued coughing.

  I whispered, “He looks like he’s almost dead.”

  “Is that your professional opinion, doctor?” Simon chuckled. “Yes, Ben, he does look that way. He’s had three strokes in the past two years. The last was just two months ago. It’s surprising he’s lasted this long.”

  “Why am I here?” I asked for a second time. The weight of the briefcase started to become evident again. I wanted to set it down but kept holding it, my sweaty hand gripping the handle tightly.

  “Remember, Ben, two choices. Either you can place that briefcase you brought with you underneath his bed, or ...”

  Something told me he had drifted off on purpose, that this was all part of the suspense, all supposed to keep the audience on the edge of their seats. As much as I didn’t want to go along with his stupid tricks, I knew I had no choice, so I said the word he was waiting for.

  “Or?”

  “Or else,” Simon said, “you can kill him.”

  31

  The coughing out somewhere in the corridor had died down. There had been no echoing sound of footsteps, so it was clear the redhead hadn’t come in any hurry to see what was wrong.

  “If I kill him,” I whispered, keeping my gaze level with his, “then what happens?”

  “Then you take the briefcase and go on your merry way, off to the next part of the game.”

  “If I kill him I want either Jen or Casey released. I want them let go.”

  “I’m sorry, Ben, but where do you keep getting this crazy idea you’re free to negotiate? Didn’t I already tell you negotiating wasn’t an option?”

  Yes, he had told me that, but I had pulled over and refused to go any farther and he had let me speak to Casey, I had been given the chance to hear her voice for less than a minute.

  “Well?” Simon said, the grin no longer in his voice.

  “What’s in the briefcase?”

  “What do you think?”

  I paused, as if trying to come up with something, when in reality I’d been trying to guess ever since I placed it on the Taurus’s passenger seat back in Creston.

  “I ... I don’t know.”

  “Well, I can definitely tell you that’s not in there. Any other brilliant guesses?”

  I was silent again. Out in the corridor, that sound came once more, that coughing sound, only now it was very weak, hardly even there. Phillip continued staring back at me. He blinked, which seemed to cause him more trouble than it should have, and blinked again.

  Simon said, “What if I told you he was a bad person? What if I told you he used to molest children? The police had never been able to figure out who was doing it, the kids refused to tell, and so he got away with it. Would it make it easier then? Could you find it in your heart to rid the world of one more child molester?”

  “He’s an old man now. It’s not like he’s going to”—I paused, couldn’t bring myself to say the words—“to being doing that anymore.”

  “No, that’s true. But shouldn’t he suffer for his sins? Isn’t that only fair? Or are you just going to stand by like you did with Michelle Delaney? Just stand by and watch while there’s still the chance to do some good?”

  “What’s in the briefcase?”

  “Does it really matter? Does it matter if it’s stocked full of candy canes or if it’s loaded with sand? Maybe there’s nothing in there, Ben. Have you thought of that? Maybe there’s nothing in there at all, maybe the briefcase is just naturally this heavy, and the entire purpose has been to mess with your head from the start.”

  Actually this last had crossed my mind a time or two during my four hours of driving, but I knew that wasn’t the case. It just wasn’t Simon’s style.

  “So what’s it going to be, Ben? You don’t want to drag this out too long. Audiences hate it when things go on too long. The world has ADD, didn’t you know? Blame it on MTV if you want. The fact is the average cut in today’s movies is three seconds. The same goes with TV. Books with shorter chapters are bestsellers. Is it all a coincidence?”

  This wasn’t the first time Simon had gone off on a tangent and something told me this wouldn’t be the last. He liked hearing his own voice as much as he liked hearing my silence when he asked his unnerving questions, but I didn’t mind letting him ramble now. Because now I had a difficult decision to make, though in the back of my head I wondered just how difficult it really was.

  “What you said this man did,” I said, choosing my words carefully, “it’s all a lie, isn’t it.”

  “Well of course it is. But just because I made it up doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. For all either of us knows—for all anybody knows—this man has molested children before. Maybe even worse. Why don’t you ask him? Maybe he’ll want to confess before he dies.”

  Without wasting another moment I stepped forward. Phillip Fagerstrom’s eyes widened just a bit as I approached, but I stopped only a few feet away and set the briefcase down. I mouthed sorry to him, not quite sure why I’d done so (even now I’m not sure), then turned and headed out of the room. In my ear Simon was chuckling.

  “I see,” he said. “Are y
ou sure you want to do that, Ben? Now’s the time to take it back.”

  I disconnected the phone and shoved it in my pocket, never breaking my stride as I headed back down the corridor. Behind me, the resident had started coughing again, and I wished I’d been told to visit that person instead. At least then I would have felt pity, I would have felt some compassion, unlike standing there with Phillip Fagerstrom and feeling nothing.

  The redhead at the desk was still typing at her computer and smiled up at me as I passed. I wanted to stop and ask her why she didn’t check on the resident down the hall, the one I could almost see spitting up blood right this instant, but I just kept walking.

  Downstairs, as I passed the welcome desk, the woman there asked how everything had gone.

  “You weren’t up there long,” she said, concern obvious in her voice. “Everything okay?”

  “He was sleeping,” I said, and told her I’d try back tomorrow. By then I figured I’d be at least another state away.

  Then I wished her a good evening and headed for the exit. The sensors activated the doors and cold wind whipped at my face. I thought I heard the woman say something behind me but it was lost in the harsh October breeze and I continued toward my car, never once looking back.

  32

  I went back through town, heading north, until I reached 80 again. Then I headed east. I drove for close to two and a half hours before I decided to stop for the night at a Ramada. I checked in, went up to my room and fell into bed. I was still wearing the khakis and shirt, though I’d taken the tie off once I left Hickory View. I’d smoked most of the drive too, and my mouth felt raw.

  The cell phone vibrated.

  Lying with my face down, my eyes closed, I huffed. I rolled over, pulled the phone from my pocket, answered it.

  Simon said, “Turn on the TV. The local news just started and there’s something you might be interested in seeing.”

  He disconnected and I just lay there, the dead phone to my ear, wondering what the hell he wanted me to watch now. I remembered the last time he’d told me to turn on the television, how it had broadcasted the murder-suicide of Gerald and Juliet.

  I thought of the briefcase. I remembered how heavy it had been.

  I closed my eyes, murmured, “No, God, please no,” and quickly turned on the television facing the bed.

  The local news had already begun. The newscaster looked very serious and somber as he stared back into the camera and reported tonight’s top story. Over his right shoulder there was live footage of a building on fire, a four-story brick building, with police cars and fire trucks surrounding it. At the bottom of the screen was the heading UNEXPLAINED EXPLOSION and the newscaster was saying something about the town of Ryder, Illinois, about Hickory View, about close to thirty people confirmed dead, nearly fifty wounded, possibly even more.

  With a shaking hand I raised the remote and turned off the TV. Sat in mind-numbing silence for a very long time. Eventually the cell phone began vibrating and I picked it up, not really sure why I was doing it just as I wasn’t sure what I was going to say. Then, almost at once, everything came together and I gritted my teeth.

  “You fucking son of a bitch, I can’t believe you—”

  “No, no, watch it there, Ben. I didn’t do anything. Remember, it was your choice. You could have killed that old man and taken the briefcase with you. You, Ben. Not me.”

  I said nothing and just sat there, shaking, listening to the silence and the blood pounding in my ears. I continued staring at the blank television screen ... yet even though it was blank I was still seeing the live footage, and I remembered everything about the retirement home: the dry and bitter scent of disinfectant, the old woman behind the desk, the bowl of Hershey’s Kisses by the calendar, the redhead upstairs, and the resident who had been coughing and coughing and coughing. And of course the rest of them, all the others who’d been confined to their beds watching TV or sleeping, the ones put there to be forgotten by their families, by their children and grandchildren.

  Staring at the blank television screen, thinking about all those innocent lives lost, I slowly shook my head. “No,” I whispered.

  “No? No what?”

  “I can’t ... I can’t do this anymore.”

  Something changed in Simon’s voice. “What do you mean you can’t do this anymore? Don’t you love your wife and daughter? Don’t you want to save them?”

  “Of course I do,” I said, almost snapped, “but those innocent people”—I was still shaking my head, still staring at the blank television screen and seeing it all—“they had nothing to do with anything.”

  “So what are you saying? You’re quitting?” Simon chuckled. “You can’t quit now. You’re having so much fun.”

  “Fuck you!” I shouted, my body still trembling, something churning in the pit of my stomach. “Fuck you and your fucking viewers. I’m done with this. I’m going to the police. I’m turning myself in. I’m going to tell them all about your—”

  “Okay, Ben,” Simon said, his voice calm and neutral, “go ahead and quit. But Casey’s preschool? We’ll bomb it. And believe me, it’ll be a whole lot worse than Hickory View.”

  I went silent. Just sitting there, my shoulders slouched, my body continuously shaking. Still staring at that blank screen, not seeing the footage of the retirement home anymore but imagining what the footage would look like of Casey’s preschool, that stucco-sided block of a building, the swings and slides outside, all as they burned to the ground.

  “We’ll do it in the middle of the day. Right when the kids are napping. Or maybe we should do it earlier, during reading time? How many kids are there on a daily basis, Ben? Thirty? Forty? How much staff?”

  Still I said nothing. My stomach was churning even more.

  “I suggest you do yourself a favor and get some sleep.”

  I closed my eyes. Saw all the kids inside that preschool, Casey there among them. I heard myself say, “I want to see my family.”

  “Sorry, Ben. Can’t help you there.”

  “Let me at least speak to them.”

  “Um, no, I don’t think so.”

  “Goddamn it!” I shot up and started toward the TV, caught myself an instant before I threw the phone right at the screen. In my ear, Simon was chuckling.

  “You need sleep, my friend. It’s been a long day. Tomorrow is going to be even longer.”

  Then he was gone and I was left standing there, tears in my eyes, shaking. The room began to spin. I took one step, another, my legs wobbly and unsure of themselves, and before I realized it I was rushing toward the bathroom, slamming into the door, falling on my knees before the toilet. And there I spent the next half hour, kneeling on those cold tiles as I sobbed, dry-heaving so much I thought I would never stop, dry-heaving to the point I was certain that any moment I would bring up what was left of my withered and despair-ridden soul.

  33

  I’d already been driving for close to an hour, headed down 80 and then up 55, getting closer and closer to Chicago, when the van came out of nowhere and struck the Taurus from behind.

  It was close to ten o’clock—Simon had let me sleep in, giving me close to ten hours of much needed rest—and traffic wasn’t too heavy. Even though I couldn’t see the Chicago skyline yet, I could sense it, which made me think more and more about Jen, which made me think more and more about Casey, which made me realize just how much I hated Simon and whoever was watching me right now.

  I’d just passed Bolingbrook and the 355 interchange when the van struck and the Taurus lurched forward and my head snapped back. I’d already been doing over sixty and the steering wheel jerked and I had to hold on tight to keep it steady, to keep the car from skidding off the highway. I checked my rearview mirror and saw a black utility van. It swung over into the left lane, passed me, swung back into my lane, and immediately hit its brakes.

  I didn’t have time to think—I just stomped on the brake and swerved the wheel and closed my eyes and braced myself for
the impact.

  None came.

  The phone in my pocket vibrated right as I opened my eyes. The utility van was stopped just a few feet ahead of me. We were in the right lane, the Taurus a little closer to the side of the highway as I’d swerved, and traffic was speeding by on the left, some people honking.

  I answered the phone just as I put the car in park and undid my seatbelt. Simon was already shouting—“Don’t get out of the car! Keep driving!”—but by then I had the door open and my left foot was on the macadam, followed by my right foot, and I was standing, turning, listening to the traffic as it flew by on the highway, listening to the honking, wondering just what the hell had happened and not really even sure why I was getting out of the car in the first place. Simon continued shouting at me to get back in the car and I was listening but at the same time I was looking up at the two men approaching. One was black and one was white and at first I couldn’t place them—they looked familiar but at the same time they didn’t—and then before I knew it they were on me, grabbing my arms, one of them tearing the glasses off my face and throwing them aside, the black one taking the phone out of my hand and placing it to his ear and saying, “Game over, Simon,” before he disconnected the call.

  “Hey,” I said, trying to fight the men as they dragged me toward the van and the side door which was open, “stop, don’t do this,” but the men ignored me and threw me into the van and climbed in after me and the black one said, “How long?” and the driver said, “Less than sixty seconds,” and the white one slid the door shut and shouted, “Go!”