Revolution Number 9 (6 page)

“Oh God, Emily.”

“Gentle, Charlie, gentle.”

He tried to be gentle. He tried to be calm. He tried to make love to her like a loving husband. He owed her that. He owed her a taste of what it would be to have a loving husband. He held her tight and made time go as slowly as he could. Emily relaxed, opened, sighed, moaned, came. “Come, Charlie.”

But Charlie, up again in the little tunnel world, didn’t want to come. He wanted to fuck and fuck and never stop.

“Not again, Charlie.”

Then he came too. They lay together, hot and damp, felt the blood coursing in their bodies. “A whole lifetime of this,” Emily said. “I don’t know if I can stand it.”

Charlie buried his head in her shoulder then, something he had never done.
Don’t
, he told himself, but couldn’t pull away. He lay like that in the darkness of his house until Emily’s breathing slowed and fell into a deep, even rhythm. Charlie
heard her heart beating in his ear, strong and steady. He lay still for a long time, eyes open in the darkness, wishing he could crawl up inside her and disappear. Then he slid his arm out from under her, rolled carefully away, and slipped out of bed. He gathered up his clothes, stopped to straighten the covers on Emily, and silently left the room.

Leaving the lights off, Charlie went down to the kitchen. He peered out the window, saw his street, dark, quiet, still. He took a carton of orange juice from the fridge, a loaf of bread from the counter, the keys to
Straight Arrow
from the hook on the wall. Then he opened the back door and stepped outside.

It was the same night, soft and warm. The moon hung higher in the sky now, not so fat but even whiter than before. Charlie didn’t move for a minute or two. He heard an animal run across his roof and a fish splash in the pond, but that was all. He walked through the soft grass, down to the dock.

Straight Arrow
was tethered to the end, as always. Charlie climbed on, freed the lines, cast off. He took a paddle from the forward compartment and started paddling toward the cut. Nothing happened on shore—no sirens, no lights, no shouts. Charlie leaned over the starboard side and paddled hard. There was no sound but water sound: the tumbling of little waves pushed by the hull, the occasional sucking at the paddle. Charlie paddled all the way to the cut, under the bridge, beyond.

Outside a breeze was blowing, stirring up a light chop. Charlie put the paddle away and switched on the engine. He left the running lights off, idling for a few moments when he should have been on the move. He was trying to make himself not look back. The moon gleamed in endless striations on the water, lighting a silver path that ran from south to north. Charlie swung
Straight Arrow
onto the path. North was Canada, a long way north, and that would mean landing to refuel; but it was better than traveling by road in a yellow Volkswagen Beetle, and that was his only other idea. Brutally, he banged the throttle all the way down, and
Straight Arrow
surged forward.

Then Charlie did look back, once. He couldn’t help himself. He saw a faint glow at the opening of the cut, and nothing but darkness beyond.

He turned away, pushed down on the already fully opened
throttle, trying for speed that wasn’t there. At that moment a dazzling light flashed on, bathing Charlie in brilliant white, like a patient in an operating room. He responsed instantly, jerking the wheel to the right, running for open sea. That brought a series of staccato barking sounds. The windscreen shattered in Charlie’s face; Plexiglas particles streamed through his hair. He pulled back on the throttle.

Now he heard another motor. He looked around, into the glare. A voice called out: “Hands in the up configuration.”

Charlie thought of hitting the throttle. He thought of jumping over the side. Then he raised his hands over his head.

A sleek cigarette boat slid alongside
Straight Arrow
. The gorilla man stood in the bow. He had a line in one hand and an automatic rifle, pointed casually at Charlie, in the other. He looped the line around
Straight Arrow
’s bow cleat. The gorilla head turned to Charlie. The mouth was open wide, revealing fierce plastic teeth. The gorilla man said:
“Finis
, Blakey. Shut ’er down and climb aboard.”

Charlie turned the key and stepped onto the cigarette. The bright light went off. Charlie, momentarily blind, felt big padded hands patting him down. “Clean,” said the gorilla man.

Charlie’s eyes adjusted to the darkness. He soon made out the gorilla man, now leaning against the front of the console, rifle dangling toward the deck. Standing at the wheel was a man in a seersucker suit and bow tie, his gaunt face colored green by the lights of the instrument panel. He switched off the cigarette’s engines. Then it was quiet, peaceful almost, out at sea on a calm night. The boats bobbed together on the water. In the distance a buoy bell rang. Little waves slapped the hulls. The extinguished searchlight crackled once or twice, went silent. The bow-tie man said, “You can remove that ridiculous costume.”

The gorilla man laid the rifle on the console and fiddled with a zipper on his back. Charlie’s gaze was drawn to the rifle. “Don’t even consider it,” the gorilla man said. He stripped off the hairy bodysuit. Underneath he wore gray sweats with a blue “Yale” on the chest. “The head too?” he asked.

“Is it part of the costume?” said the bow-tie man.

The gorilla man began tugging at his head. It came off with
a rubbery snap. “Ow,” he said. He didn’t look like the kind of man who would react much to pain. He was in his late twenties, big, just as big as he had appeared in the suit, with a bony white face and hair so light it appeared silver in the darkness.

“That was fun,” he said, although there was no sign of amusement on his face. “Like Halloween. Do you think I can keep it?”

“It goes back on Monday,” said the bow-tie man.

“You’re the boss,” said the gorilla man. He sat on the gunwale, rifle in his lap.

The bow-tie man turned to Charlie. “Do you need something to stop the blood?”

Charlie touched his cheek. It was wet and sticky, cut by flying Plexiglas. He made no reply.

“A stoic,” said the bow-tie man.

“That’s rich,” said the gorilla man.

“Is it not.” The bow-tie man moved to the stern, gingerly, as though he had pulled a muscle in his abdomen, and sat on the padded bench that ran from one side to the other. “Come sit down, Mr. Wrightman.”

“That’s not my name,” Charlie said. He stayed where he was.

The bow-tie man pinched the bridge of his nose, like a man with a splitting headache. Charlie noticed how scrawny his neck was, much too small for the collar of his button-down shirt. “Are you going to begin on that level?” the bow-tie man asked. “I expected better.”

“Why?” asked the gorilla man.

The bow-tie man ignored him. “I’m willing, Mr. Wrightman, to imagine that with the passage of time there may be moments when you actually think you are Charlie Ochs. But the fact is that Charlie Ochs does not exist. He’s a fantasy, backed up with a phony history and a few quaint props. But unreal. A nonperson, if you will.”

“Which raises an interesting question,” said the gorilla man.

“It came up a few hours ago, while you were having that heartwarming party,” the bow-tie man said. “Svenson here brought it up. I shouldn’t be surprised of course. He majored in philosophy.”

“Minored, Mr. G,” said Svenson. “Art history was my major.”

Again Mr. G ignored him. “The question, Mr. Wrightman, is this: is it a crime to kill a nonperson?”

“Shoot him in the head, tie an anchor around his neck, and throw him over,” said Svenson. “Or something like that, right Mr. G?”

Mr. G did not respond. He gazed at Charlie. The boat bobbed up and down. A buoy rang far away. Waves slapped the hull. It could have been a peaceful night on a calm sea. Then Mr. G got down on his hands and knees and vomited over the side.

“S
easick, Mr. G?” said Svenson. He rose quickly, leaving the rifle on the deck.

Mr. G waved him back, then wiped his mouth with sea-water. Holding onto the bench for support, he pulled himself to his feet and took a deep breath.

“You going to be okay?” Svenson asked.

“Is that a smart question?” said Mr. G in raspy voice.

“Sorry.” Svenson bit his lip like a schoolboy. He watched Mr. G open a bottle of pills and swallow several. Charlie risked another glance at the gun.

“He’s still thinking about it, Mr. G,” said Svenson, without looking at Charlie, “even though I told him not to.” Svenson picked up the gun.

Mr. G sat down heavily and said something too low to hear.

“I didn’t quite get that, Mr. G,” said Svenson.

Mr. G cleared his throat, making a sound like steel files being rubbed together. “He’s still in shock.”

“Shock?”

“He hasn’t internalized the situation yet. Must I spell everything out?”

“Sorry,” Svenson repeated. “Maybe this will help him.” He reached into his back pocket. Something crinkled in his hands. He came forward and handed a sheet of paper to Charlie. Charlie held it close to the green console light. The paper was wrinkled with many foldings and brittle with age.

“John Blake Wrightman,” it read. “Wanted for Murder.”

There was a photograph of the wanted man, and a list of details—his height, 6 feet; his weight, 195; his distinguishing marks, none; and the warning that he was a terrorist, to be considered armed and dangerous.

Svenson came around the console and gazed at it with him. “Look how long his hair was.” His eyes shifted to Charlie, then back to the photograph on the poster.

“But he’s aged well, hasn’t he?” said Mr. G.

“Like Faust,” said Svenson, abruptly snatching the poster and putting it away, “or Dorian Gray, I can’t remember.” He backed away, lounged once more against the gunwale. “He looks more than one ninety-five, though.”

“Maybe, but it’s not middle-aged spread,” said Mr. G. “I’d make a note of that, Svenson.”

Svenson snorted.

Mr. G turned to Charlie. “I hope you’re not going to waste a lot of time denying who you are. It won’t hold up, you know.”

Charlie knew that. Did it make him Blake Wrightman? Yes, he had been Blake Wrightman, but that was a long time ago. There was no point saying it, so he said nothing. In the silence that followed came the sound of a splash, not far away, followed by a much bigger one. Hunter and hunted played their parts, down below.

“Should we explain how we found him?” Svenson asked. “I’ll bet he’s dying to know. If you’ll pardon the
double-entendre.”
Svenson pronounced the words in the French manner. He had a nice accent.

Mr. G looked at Charlie, but Charlie couldn’t read his face in the darkness. “Are you dying to know?” he asked. Charlie did not reply. “Let’s just say that a lot of data finds its way to
my office,” Mr. G said. “It takes time to sift through it, that’s all.”

“What office?” Charlie said.

There was a pause. “I believe he’s trying to establish our bona fides,” Mr. G said.

“That’s kind of humorous, coming from the likes of him,” said Svenson.

Charlie, for a wild moment entertaining the thought that these men might be imposters, said, “Let’s see some ID.”

Svenson laughed, but Mr. G said, “Show him.”

“You’re my mentor,” Svenson replied with a shrug, and pushed himself off the gunwale. He didn’t appear to be moving fast, but he must have been because he drove the rifle butt into the pit of Charlie’s stomach before Charlie could even flinch, and Charlie was a quick man. He went down on the deck, rolled over. Svenson kicked him hard in the back. It forced a grunt of pain from Charlie; he couldn’t keep it in.

“I don’t think we have to worry about that extra bulk after all,” Svenson said.

Mr. G got to his feet, stepped toward Charlie, looked down. “Can you hear me, Mr. Wrightman?”

Charlie was silent.

“The point is that if you choose to handle this in a vulgar manner, we can respond in kind,” said Mr. G. “That’s the meaning of democracy.”

Charlie, his ear against the deck, heard the
slap-slap
of the waves. He turned on his side, tried to get up, couldn’t. High above he saw their faces in the green console lights, Svenson’s harsh and young, like a new world uneroded by the elements, Mr. G’s like death.

Svenson turned to Mr. G. “Vulgar?” he said. “I don’t think violence is necessarily vulgar. It depends on who’s doing it and why.”

“You’re wrong,” said Mr. G. “Violence is always vulgar, if sometimes necessary.” He backed out of Charlie’s sight and sat down on the padded bench. “I’m talking about physical violence, of course. As violence becomes nonphysical, it ascends the social scale. Like anything else.”

Charlie got a grip on the side, lurched to his feet. His stomach
lurched with him, and the next moment he was bent over the stern, vomiting, as Mr. G had, into the sea.

“Jesus H.,” said Svenson. “You’re not on chemo, are you?”

Charlie felt a little better; well enough to do something. He wasn’t a trained fighter, but he knew how to move. He spun around and threw a punch at Svenson’s head. Maybe not as quickly as he would have liked: Svenson was ready. He drove the rifle butt into Charlie’s gut again, striking the same spot. Charlie went down, harder this time, and stayed down. He vomited again too, right where he lay. Then he fought to get a breath inside him.

Mr. G sighed. “Now,” he said, “perhaps we might begin. It’s late and I’m tired.”

“Not me,” said Svenson. “I could pull an all-nighter no problem.”

Mr. G sighed again, more loudly this time. “Let’s start with the girl.”

“Woman,” Svenson corrected. “Girls are twelve and under.”

Mr. G didn’t seem to hear him. “Were there other marriages along the way?” he continued. “Or was this going to be the first?”

Charlie, prone on the deck and panting, didn’t answer.

“The bride-to-have-been is very pretty,” Mr. G said. It sounded like the introduction to further remarks, but none ensued.

Charlie didn’t want them talking about Emily. He got control of his breathing, then forced himself up to his knees. His hands squared into fists. Svenson, still lounging, changed the position of his feet.