The Musician

by Douglas Gardham

  Though painful, Ethan did everything he could to bring the muscle spasms in his arms and legs under control. Then he felt something in his hand with the broken finger. Though it was strange, he didn’t move to the voice’s question, seeing it as another trick of kindness, like proffering poison in a polished red apple.

  The straw in his mouth had dropped to the chair. The pain of his thirst for water seemed to have exchanged places with the physical pain of drinking it. Fear accompanied his thirst; if dehydration didn’t kill him, he might end up wishing it had. He could remain alive and broken but not without water.

  He knew the Madonna thing knew this.

  “Could have sworn you were trying to tell me something.”

  The Madonna face screamed the last word as a panicked mother might have called the name of a child who had run into a busy street. Ethan’s numbness kept him still.

  “But I’ve been wrong before,” it said, its voice fading as it moved away from Ethan’s side.

  Don McLean’s “American Pie” was taking its turn in the room.

  The song seemed to give Madonna-Robbie time to think. It gave Ethan time to think too, even if unclearly. The pause wasn’t without intention, Ethan figured. Robbie was smart. But the longer Ethan was conscious, the more he could think too. With no outside stimuli, his mind went inside, searching, made easier by his weakened state. It was harder to try not to think. Worse, Ethan had no control over the duration of the pause. It was all in the Madonna mask’s hands. The game was—

  Stop it! Stop it! Ethan screamed silently, deafening him inside. You’re not helping.

  If he’d moved, he didn’t know it. He could have. He was on the other side of the open heavy door, with the inside begging him to step forward.

  “I wanted to do something new today,” Madonna-Robbie said, “to reward you for your good behavior.”

  The straw disappeared from between his legs on the chair. His head remained down, unmoving, like his eyes. If he’d moved, he couldn’t remember.

  “I don’t want to get your hopes up,” the electronic voice said, sounding almost apologetic in its tone. “Be assured you won’t leave this room alive, but to help speed things up, I thought of this game. I’m calling it Death by a Thousand Cuts.”

  The Madonna thing could hardly get the words out before its creaky laugh started. The black boots moved into view in front of Ethan.

  “We’re going to start now,” said Madonna-Robbie. An X-Acto knife appeared in front of Ethan’s eyes. “The game goes like this.”

  Without pause, its manly hand grabbed Ethan’s right shoulder. Ethan felt his arm move. A sharp twinge of pain followed, as if a vaccination needle had been poked into his arm. The pain burned for an instant and then seemed to dissipate.

  “Today”—the Madonna continued flashing the blade, now marked with blood, in front of Ethan’s eyes—“we will start with one cut. Each time we play, I will double the number of cuts.”

  The X-Acto blade smeared with his blood disappeared. Ethan didn’t move.

  “So,” the voice said.

  Again, the black boots disappeared from Ethan’s right-side view only to reappear a moment later on his left. His captor snickered in the electronics. Ethan wondered what could possibly be funny.

  “To move things along, we’ll play two rounds today. First round was one cut. This round will be two.”

  As it spoke, Ethan felt the burning pain of the next stroke into his left shoulder. It seemed deeper than the first. He flinched, but it didn’t slow the Madonna. Another slice followed, seemingly just below the second cut. His numb arm jerked the chain that held it.

  A drop of blood landed on his bare right thigh from the first cut. He was surprised; the cut hadn’t seemed as painful as the last two, yet blood dripped from it. How deep are the other two? It wouldn’t take a thousand cuts to end him at that rate.

  “Now that seems a little unbalanced to me,” it said. “A different number of cuts on each arm isn’t right.”

  The voice trailed off, as if again distracted by something. A different number of cuts on each arm repeated in his head. He knew those words. Why? Again, he didn’t know, but they touched something in his memory, like lines from a movie or something he’d read—real yet not real. Why those words? How could they possibly make any difference anyway?

  He could feel the heavy door behind him.

  This is a mistake, he said to himself. A fucking mistake.

  The words screamed as if something inside were trying to get out.

  Something hit the wall above where he believed the bed, table, and commode to be, though he hadn’t seen them during this awake period. The black boots that had been on his left returned to his right side.

  The pain in his right arm was instant and stayed longer. He did everything in his power to hold still. The muscles in his arm tightened.

  “There. That’s much better,” the Madonna mask announced. “You’re gonna bleed out right here, my man—right here in front of me. I am your hope, your fear, and your truth,” the voice behind the mask bellowed.

  Ethan didn’t look up but was sure if he had, he would have seen the Madonna mask facing the ceiling, yelling the words to some inexplicable deity.

  At the same time, the feeling of something in his hand came back. His hands had been numb for he didn’t know how long, chained to hang high behind him. The object felt like a book. Surprised by the sensation, he was certain there was nothing there, yet he couldn’t deny the feeling. He hadn’t moved and was still staring down at his legs, but the feeling of a book in his right hand was there. He could see it in his mind. It wasn’t there for him to read; it was there because he needed it. As before, he didn’t know why he knew that; he just did. He needed the book’s words. His words were in the book. He could see himself holding it, having paid for it with almost all the money he had. The book was important. It represented who he was to become. It was time for Robbie to take off the Madonna mask. Ethan had done it before. It was in the book. It was part of the story. Robbie would reveal himself.

  Ethan felt a drip running down his bicep like a bead of sweat, only it wasn’t sweat. It was blood—his blood.

  What had he heard hit the wall?

  Cuts. Bleeding. Slow bleeding. Those were the words in his head.

  But what had hit the wall? He wanted to look—needed to look—but looking would have consequences, likely deadly ones. He also knew if he didn’t do something, he would die.

  The others had died.

  If you’re not willing to risk it all, you don’t want it bad enough.

  The line came to Ethan as if he’d just read it. He knew the line. It was his line, a line that had changed his life. Then he saw it. The word was clear.

  Act.

  The word was in the room behind the heavy door.

  He’d written it on the wall. It was time to act.

  CHAPTER 79

  Eyes Open—Still

  Ethan raised his head, knowing it might be for the last time, or at least he imagined doing it.

  It was what he had to do.

  He was sure of his captor’s identity yet in disbelief at how Robbie could have pulled off such an incredible feat in rising from the dead.

  It didn’t make any sense. And why Syd?

  But as he said her name in his head, he remembered. This wasn’t about Syd. It was about Mila.

  But Robbie killed Christa, Ethan. No, Robbie killed Mila.

  He was mixed up again. How long had it been since his last Orap pills? Days? A week?

  The Madonna-Robbie thing had repeated that Ethan wouldn’t leave the room alive. He was there to die. Retribution would be complete when his captor was ready. But there were two people in the room—the Madonna mask and him. Madonna-Robbie had planned what would happen, just like its lecture. Ethan had a stake in that. He had to do
something. The Madonna mask’s two-minute warning had sounded. Ethan wasn’t about to go down without a fight.

  He would first raise his head when the black boots moved out of sight. If any luck were on his side, Madonna-masked Robbie would be looking the other way. Ethan knew what he would see: the beige cinder block walls, the wood-framed bed perfectly made up with a sky-blue bedspread and pressed white pillowslip, the night table, and the white-enamel commode beside it. He saw the scene in even more detail than before, as if on a movie set, and he was the camera.

  Still he didn’t know how he knew that, but he did. There was something on the floor too—something different.

  Ethan stopped thinking and raised his head. As he’d thought, he saw the bed, the beige walls, the table, and the toilet—and what he figured he’d heard hit the wall.

  On the floor in front of the nightstand, lying open with the dustcover up, was Browning Station—his lost hospital copy, protective plastic cover and all.

  Staring in disbelief, Ethan was slow to catch Madonna-Robbie’s movement.

  “Ah,” the electronic voice said.

  There was a mix of reactions as the two stared at each other. Ethan was incredulous at seeing his lost book splayed out on the floor in front of him. Madonna-Robbie appeared just as surprised at seeing Ethan’s head up and facing him. What Madonna-Robbie said next surprised Ethan the most.

  “You recognize it?”

  Ethan didn’t move. He was caught. He would have to deal with what followed. But for the first time, he saw something different in the eyes behind the Madonna mask. They shifted for all of an instant, as if its mind had gone somewhere else, unplanned and unexpected. He’d never seen that in Robbie’s eyes. For a moment, he thought someone else might be behind the mask.

  “You know,” the Madonna mask said, “I first saw Browning Station in a bookstore on Rideau Street—with a sign that said, ‘Penned by local author.’”

  The electronic voice pointed at the book with the X-Acto knife still in its hand. “But then I saw it in your car. I had to have it.”

  How could Robbie—

  The Madonna went over and picked up the book. Without turning around, it seemed to look at the cover, and then it tossed the book onto the blue bedspread.

  Queen’s “Sheer Heart Attack” was playing.

  As if a switch had been activated in its head, the Madonna mask turned around. “You don’t know how you came to be here, do you?”

  It asked the question in a way that made Ethan recall sitting in front of Dr. Katharine’s desk, about to listen to her diagnosis.

  “There I go again, asking you a question!” The voice yelled the last word as if speaking in punctuation. Then it calmed. “It was really quite easy. You should be more careful who you pick for friends.”

  The Madonna face moved closer.

  Ethan prepared to be kicked. Greg, Randolph, and Gus came to mind. He stopped at Gus. He’d known Gus for the least amount of time.

  “We met at one of your shows a while back,” the electronic voice said. “Maybe in London. Maybe Toronto. I’ve been to a few.”

  Ethan didn’t move. He tried not to listen. He was being set up.

  “Sydney seemed down,” the voice said. “I bought her a drink. She told me about you. Fucking you. How you were going to leave the band. I told her I might be able to help—scare you a little. Maybe you’d reconsider. She warmed up to the idea. It was easy to arrange in Ottawa. She didn’t have to know my real agenda.”

  Ethan turned his head before he realized what he’d done.

  The Madonna changed.

  “What are you doing?” it yelled. The hand holding the X-Acto knife turned.

  Its arm came up. Ethan knew what would happen before the blade disappeared into his right bicep. He didn’t need to see the silver handle sticking out of his arm.

  He screamed into the tape. Then the words started in his mind.

  You had to let the prisoner drink. Dehydration killed after three days. That wasn’t going to happen; they deserved more—much more. But to live, they had to have water. Water would grow their fear.

  The hole in the duct tape allowed him to drink but not be heard.

  William wanted his prisoner to understand the fear his prisoner’s victim had felt—that prolonged, paralyzing, mind-melting fear. This was justice. Call it vigilante. Call it payback. Call it robbing from the rich to give to the deserving. He didn’t give a shit what they called it. They could all fuck themselves. This was for those who couldn’t fend for themselves.

  Ethan knew the Madonna’s—no, William’s—thoughts. He had read them. No, it was more than that; they had become his thoughts. He saw the Madonna’s face and knew Robbie’s thoughts. He knew Robbie. He had watched Robbie. Robbie? But it wasn’t Robbie. Robbie’s dead, Ethan. He felt as he did when he thought he knew someone in a dream, only to find out it was someone else.

  Killing wouldn’t be enough for William—no, Robbie. No, it was someone else he saw now; to just let him die wouldn’t be enough. It had killed her. Ethan had watched, unable to move. Now it couldn’t just let Ethan die. This situation was about control and power—its over Ethan’s. It wanted Ethan to know that too. Ethan was to die under its hand, its control—William’s control. No, it isn’t William’s. The madman behind the Madonna mask had to kill him, just as he had killed her. Mila.

  CHAPTER 80

  Eyes Open Still—Seeing

  The room was the same, just as he’d pictured it—the bed, table, commode, beige walls, and green carpet. Even the chair he was bound to.

  The padlock was gone. The heavy door was wide open. Ethan was now inside, behind it.

  William Avery. The monster. The same but made up to be different. The identity of the monster was like a faceless hologram in Ethan’s mind; one angle showed an image, and a different angle showed another. Her killer couldn’t be original even in his killing—but devious and evil? Oh yeah, William Avery had nothing on this thing. Its choreography was impeccable.

  But William Avery was a well-meaning, proud family man who was never expected to make a difference. He was Mr. Average in the mediocre world that surrounded him. But William found a way to make a difference. Ethan knew it. He’d lived it. He’d become it. It had made him famous?

  The title of the book seemed to stare back at him, as if it talked to him. Ethan’s world had been Browning Station. He’d researched and rehearsed and become William Avery. But his William Avery delivered justice to those who were incapable of getting justice themselves. William delivered justice to those who deserved it. What they had coming to them was in his hands—the child molester; the racist killer; the woman abuser; predators who walked around masked in kindly goodness while preying on the less fortunate, weaker ones.

  This imposter masked as Madonna was not William Avery.

  Yet everything else in the room reflected William Avery’s story. The Madonna hadn’t taken Ethan through all of Browning Station, but it had made parts of it feel real. The room resembled the set where he’d become William Avery.

  Ethan was William Avery.

  Ethan screamed into the tape again—no words, only the muffled sounds of terror.

  His head shook while he screamed. His arms shook as far as the chains and chair would allow. He bucked in the chair, held back by the strap around his stomach. He rammed his legs up and down against the steel ankle bracelets. The steel cuffs cut into his wrists and ankles as he rocked manically. His broken left foot was in agony with every movement.

  Then he heard it again—William Avery’s line. But it wasn’t William Avery talking. It was Christa.

  If you’re not willing to risk it all, you don’t want it bad enough.

  The word again appeared in front of his eyes: act.

  * * *

  It started in his chest. He was screaming and coughed. The cough wasn
’t real, but Ethan made it real.

  He adjusted his scream. His eyes widened. He shook his head as if high-voltage electricity were flowing through him; the fear of God was in his eyes. He glared into the shifting eyes that looked back at him from behind rubber Madonna—mad, blank eyes. He coughed, choking his scream. He contracted his neck muscles, fed by the hot pain of the X-Acto knife in his arm. The knife was erect and obscene like a harpoon stuck in the side of a bleeding whale. Each flex of his thin bicep ignited new fire. He made his fingers and hands shake as if charged by the same high voltage that shook his head and was killing him. His throbbing broken finger egged him on. The toes of his right foot curled while his foot quivered. The pain in his left foot exacerbated the vibration of his right. He’d not seen a convulsive seizure; this was the best of his imagination.

  “You’re not dying until I say so!” the voice said, exploding its command into Ethan’s face.

  Foaming saliva bubbled through the hole in the tape, muting his screams.

  Every part of his naked body moved or shuddered. Spit sprayed from the hole in the duct tape as he blew out. His eyes rolled back in his head; only the dead-like whites were visible.

  “Stop this shit!” the electronic-voiced Madonna yelled, its strong hands on Ethan’s head, trying to stop the violent shaking. Ethan knew his head was shaved. William Avery had shaved his prisoners’ heads. He could feel the prickliness of the stubble and the sensitivity to the air around his head. Hair would have allowed the Madonna to grab a handful and hold him maybe. The exertion made him sweat, and his head was slippery like greased swine. It was all as real as he could make it—choking convulsions fueled by the evil in the eyes he looked into.

  “Stop your monkey shit!” it bellowed.

  Ethan did not slow, despite his body’s pleading. He became more frantic, his apparent insanity heightened by his refusal to admit his situation, his helplessness, or his vulnerability. He had to be as crazy as his evil captor, the captive no longer on the verge of hell but in the depths of it.