Stirred (31 page)

“All hope abandon, ye who enter in!”

D
ANTE
A
LIGHIERI
,
The Divine Comedy

T
he fat man’s suit is stained and torn.

He sits on the floor, peering up at Luther, trying to look defiant, but Luther senses the fear coming off him like radiation, and imagines that his chubby fingers—hands bound behind him with zip line—are trembling.

“How are you, Herb?”

The fat man just glares.

“You’re angry with me, that’s fair.”

“Where’s Jack?”

“Jack’s resting. She has a big, big day ahead of her. So do you. And your friends, Harry and Phin.”

“What have you done with her, you son of a bitch?”

“You’ll get a chance to find out firsthand, Herb. Within the next several hours, in fact. You’re an important part of everything that’s about to happen.”

Luther reaches down and lifts a black velvet cloth out of a crumpled paper bag at his feet.

Sets it on the table between them.

“Before we begin, I just want to be clear that I don’t have any desire to get into a conversation with you about
why
I need to blind you. Only the method.”

He waits for it.

There.

What had been predominately anger and rage in the fat man’s eyes gives way to full-blown terror.

Nice. That was fun.

“Blind me?” Herb asks, his voice dripping with disbelief.

“And you have a choice here, which is the good news.”

Luther opens the velvet cloth, upon which lay an ice pick and a curved needle and thread.

“I’m going to either jam the ice pick into your eyeballs, or stitch your eyelids closed. It’s entirely your call, but if you don’t think you can sit still while I do the suturing, you might need to man up and just go the faster, more permanent route.”

The fat man has begun to sweat, beads dripping off his double chin.

“Is a blindfold an option?”

“Herbert.” Luther says his name like he’s scolding a bad dog. “Just tell me the way you’d like for me to go.”

“Oh…God.” He can see the fat man is fighting to keep it together.

“Choose or I’ll choose for you.”

Herb’s voice is barely a croak. “The needle.”

“Okay,” Luther says, standing. “Now you have to remain very calm. I can’t have you flailing around while I’ve got a needle near your eye. That could be dangerous. I could poke my finger.”

“We’re…doing this…
now
?”

“Right now.”

Luther kneels down, picking up the surgeon’s suture.

“Now, I want you to start practicing,” Luther says.

“Practicing what?”

Luther sits down on the table and raises the needle, a twelve-inch length of black thread dangling from the eye.

“Holding very, very still.”

M
y baby woke me, kicking.

I opened my eyes, found myself staring down into broken pavement, my head as unwieldy as a hot air balloon. Swallowing, I felt a dry tightness in my throat. I had a slightly metallic taste in my mouth and was hot all over.

And yet, I shivered.

The pattering on my windbreaker sounded like rain, and the dirty street smelled of it.

I lay for some time on the wet pavement trying to cobble together my last cogent memory, but I couldn’t find it. I remembered the Marquette Building, checking into the Congress Hotel, but everything after lay beyond my mind’s reach, lost in a painful, throbbing fog. Something about Phin and maybe Harry. Flashing red and blue lights on tombstones. But nothing concrete.

It took a substantial effort to finally heave myself up into a sitting position.

I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes and squinted until the world came into focus.

I was sitting in the middle of an empty street lined with small factory houses.

Rain fell out of a low, ominous cloud deck.

I had to turn over onto all fours and get my legs underneath me to even have a chance at standing. Once on my feet, I could feel my heart pounding and that disturbing pins-and-needles tingling in my extremities.

The clothes I wore weren’t mine—this much I knew. Dark blue rain pants and a matching jacket. Sports bra underneath. White sneakers that squeezed my swollen feet. I patted myself down, looking for my cell phone, any sort of weapon. Found nothing.

I pulled the nylon hood over my head and started across the street toward the nearest house, not realizing until I reached the porch its state of disrepair.

Paint had chipped off everywhere.

The floorboards sagged.

I climbed the steps and banged on the front door and waited.

No one came.

I moved over to the window beside the door, cupped my hands over my eyes, and peered through. Almost all of the glass had been broken out, save for a few sharp jags remaining around the perimeter. The house was dark inside, and by what little light slipped through, I saw that the interior lay in ruin—furniture destroyed and rotted down to the splintered frames. The floor littered with syringes, empty beer cans, broken bottles. I caught a strong waft of mildew from what could only be severe water damage.

No one had lived here in years.

I waddled down the creaky steps, my brain reeling.

Halfway up the stairs to the house next door, I stopped. This one was abandoned too, standing in an even greater state of ruin, with the roof over the front-left quadrant caved in.

I scanned the other houses in the vicinity and saw more of the same—this entire neighborhood of homogenous factory houses was a ghost town.

A crow streaked past overhead, buzzing the treetops, its cawing filling the air with a solitary, haunting echo.

Where the hell was I? How did I get here?

Aside from the bird, there were no other sounds. Most notably absent was the hum of car engines and city noise. It was so quiet here, I could’ve been standing in a secluded forest.

Stumbling back into the road, I trudged along the middle of the street and cupped my hands around my mouth.

“Hey! Anyone there!”

No one answered me.

An ancient water tower loomed in the distance, and I was trying to make out the faded writing on the tank when I heard someone scream up ahead.

While my memory didn’t return, I instinctively knew who was behind this.

Luther.

Please, please, please, don’t let the person screaming be someone I love…

H
e opened his eyes and found himself strapped to an odd sort of chair, his arms and legs stretched taut, secured with leather restraints. Some sort of pulley-and-gear system had been integrated into the seat. It looked like a high-tech dentist’s chair, with more bells and whistles, none of them appearing to be pleasant.

Phin didn’t like it at all, and his heart began to do a thrash metal drum solo. He tried to pull free, but the bonds were solid.

The room was stuffy, smelling of mildew and rank blood.

Concrete walls. Low light.

A floor covered in sand.

A dungeon. He was in a dungeon.

How did he get there?

The snatches of memory came rapid-fire, like thumbing through a stack of postcards.

The cemetery.

The golf cart.

The semi truck.

Jack.

JACK.

“JACK!” Phin yelled.

“Phin? That you?”

It wasn’t Jack. Phin craned his head and noticed an identical chair across from his, with another occupant strapped to it.

“McGlade?”

“Tell me we got drunk and this is some S&M hooker thing.”

“Luther’s got us.”

“Do you think he’s going to be bringing in hookers?”

“I doubt it.”

“Kinda figured.”

“You see Jack or Herb?”

“No. There’s some kind of control panel on a cart. One of the walls I’m facing has a big window, but it’s dark behind it. There’s a plaque beside it, looks like brass, has some writing. All I can make out are the words CIRCLE and VIOLENCE with a bunch of smaller words. And…” McGlade’s voice trailed off.

“And what?”

“Body. A dude. Sitting in the corner.”

“Alive?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

“You can try to yell, see if he wakes up. But it’ll be tough for him to hear without a head.”

Phin felt himself grow very cold. “Aren’t you going to make some joke about giving head?” he tried.

Harry didn’t answer.

“You with me, Harry? Don’t freak out on me now.”

“I’ve been kidnapped by a killer and am looking at a corpse without a head. Who wouldn’t freak out in this situation?”

“We need to think rationally.”

McGlade let out a slow breath. “You want to know what I’m thinking rationally about? Once again we’re tied up and waiting for some maniac to torture us to death. I should just go ahead and wet my pants right now.”

“Keep it together, Harry.”

“It’s like déjà vu all over again,” McGlade said. “You know how many nightmares I’ve had about the last time this happened?” His voice cracked. “I…I can’t handle it, buddy.”

“Yes, you can.”

“No, I can’t. I went through this once before. I can’t…”

“We’ll get out of here, Harry. It ain’t over till it’s over.”

But Phin’s own words didn’t convince him. And they felt even more hollow when he heard Harry McGlade begin to softly sob.