The sun hit their apartment every day at three. By this time, Mel needed two bottles, two snacks, breakfast and lunch. Hearty eater, Mel. They were weaning her, so only two short boob-sessions. If it was hot, she needed less. Maybe two bottles. A juice. A Popsicle. But she definitely needed a big breakfast. Always woke with an appetite.
Tom could hear them ripping things, breaking things, the tinkle of things coming apart. The burglars hadn’t demanded valuables but they hadn’t asked any questions either. They’d said shut up, sit down, stay still.
In the evenings, Mel needed a small dinner: a piece of chicken, some rice, maybe a little broccoli or peas if they bribed her. She liked dessert, understood the words cake, cookie, candy, grapes, strawberries. Like her daddy, a sweet tooth. Paulie was greasy-salty oriented – chips, grilled cheese sandwiches with bacon, hamburgers – except for caramels. Paulie had a weakness for caramels.
Through the pillowcase over his head, Tom had a gauzy view of the living room and a blurry view of the kitchen. The shaft of sunlight (finger of God, finger of God) appearing through the gap in the curtains highlighted the landscape of overturned, dismantled furniture. The burglars had taken apart the living room, moved into the kitchen, and were now in the bedrooms.
The duct tape had no give. His forearms and chest and legs were taped to an armchair he and Paulie had found during an ambitious dumpster dive. It smelled of old sweat, the avocado-green upholstery grey with the grime of many owners, the seat pale from the pressure of many bums. Heavy armchair. Tom had dragged it six blocks, Paulie laughing as he flopped down on the sidewalk, flailing, “I can’t give you any more power, Captain! The ship’s breaking up, she’s breaking up!”
Paulie had held her hand to the small of her back, her belly jutting out. “Suck it up, buttercup. Two more blocks.”
He was willing to give them the money hidden in The Regina if that was what they were looking for. More than willing. He would deal with Jeremy when Jeremy got out, when Jeremy was released (dancing to the jailhouse rock) and free to come and kick his butt. But Glock Man had taped his mouth shut. The slime of sweat oozing down his face did not loosen the layers of tape as he’d hoped it would. Sweat making his pants stiff, making his shirt clammy, the sting of sweat dripping in his eyes, blurring his vision. They had not opened the windows. The men did not seem inclined to turn on the old-fashioned fans that he and Paulie had nervously bought from second-hand stores, worried about the fan blades and Mel’s chubby fingers interacting. The men did not seem to mind being slow-cooked as they burgled.
Maybe Mel and Paulie hadn’t been home when the burglars came. The apartment was hot. Maybe Mel had heat stroke and Paulie had taken her to Emergency. Maybe Mel had been hard to get down last night and Paulie had taken her for a long stroller ride. Maybe they were in the park, right now, waiting for him.
Paulie in a fury was not quiet. Even if they’d gagged her, Tom would have heard something. Duct tape was no match for Paulie. Mel. Mel. Mel would not be this quiet this long. Mel would not be still. Mel wasn’t quiet even when she slept.
(Blubbering does not help us, does it?)
Maybe Paulie had needed to go to a meeting. She would bring Mel to a meeting. Maybe they were at a friend’s place. Maybe they were safe with some friend that Paulie had not introduced Tom to, that she had never mentioned before. Maybe she’d gone in search of air conditioning. Maybe she was visiting her parents. (Paulie shot, in the bedroom, Mel beside her. Paulie unconscious, Mel tied up and dying of dehydration.)
“Shut up,” Muscle Shirt said, coming over to hit him on top of the head. “Do you hear me, snitch? Shut up.”
(Blubbering does not make us look tough, Jeremy used to say. God, Tom, no one likes a crybaby.)
“Leave him alone,” Glock Man said. “For the love of – fucking go do the bathroom.”
He tugged the pillowcase off Tom’s head. Tom flinched.
“Are you thirsty?” Glock Man said.
Glock Man crossed the room, opened the duffle bag on the table, and brought out a sports bottle. He popped off the lid, stuck a bendy straw in the orange Gatorade. Then he put the bottle down and unsheathed a Bowie knife. With the bottle in one hand and the knife in the other, he walked over to the chair. He put down the Gatorade. Glock Man lifted the knife and brought it slowly to Tom’s face. Tom pulled back, yanking against the duct tape. Glock Man carefully poked a hole in the duct tape between Tom’s lips. He wiggled the knife tip to widen the opening. He pulled the knife back and stuck the straw in the hole.
Tom drank the lukewarm Gatorade, uncertain about where to look, glancing at the overturned and dismantled furniture, glancing at the closed curtains, finally focussing on Glock Man’s forehead. He stared steadily at Tom, concern or curiosity, Tom wasn’t sure.
“Settle down, Tom,” Glock Man pulled the straw out of Tom’s mouth. “Let’s give you something to take the edge off.”
Tom shook his head.
“Don’t worry,” Glock Man said. He took a Visine bottle out of his pants pocket and squeezed the contents into the Gatorade bottle. “It’s not Visine.”
Tom yanked harder against the tape. Glock Man clamped a hand on Tom’s forehead. He shoved the Gatorade bottle against Tom’s mouth, tilting it up, trying to pour it into Tom’s mouth. Tom twisted, but Glock Man caught a handful of hair and yanked his head back. Tom pressed his tongue against the hole. Glock Man shifted, tucking Tom’s head under his arm to free up that hand so he could plug Tom’s nose until he gasped, sucking back too much Gatorade, choking and straining for breath.
“Good boy, Tom. Good boy.”
He’d brought home a box of Freezies last week. Tom thought of them as the slanting, early evening light hit his knee. He dozed, startled awake by the sound of cordless drills or heavy thuds. Things you take for granted: getting up and walking over to the fridge and getting a Freezie.
They reminded him of Sno Cones, migraine-inducing cold and kid-friendly sweet, favourite flavour, Rocket Raspberry. Walking through the Pacific National Exhibition with Paulie, Mel strapped to his chest, only a few weeks old, Labour Day weekend. The crush of kids, of couples and seniors buying lottery tickets for the Dream Home on display. They’d toured it, tried to imagine owning a house with four bedrooms. They couldn’t afford the tickets, though. They’d spent seven-fifty each getting in. Paulie determined to get out and do something, sick of staring at the walls. Blew the rest of their budget on food: Paulie had a bag of mini-doughnuts and Tom had a Sno Cone. They wandered through the Marketplace, window shopping, snacking on samples, watching the salesmen and women hustling their buns. Paulie would lean over and slip him tongue, moving the raspberry-flavoured ice back and forth between them, their mouths numb and stained Kool-Aid red.
They were on the bus in search of snow. The bus packed with kids with snowboards and skis, with sightseers like themselves. As Mel clutched Paulie in the front seats, Tom stood over them so the skis and snowboards wouldn’t fall and hit them. The bus driver wore a Santa hat, wished everyone a ho-ho-ho Mer-ry Christmas as the passengers trooped on, paid their fare, and crammed into the aisles. Tom refused to move, even though he got dirty looks.
They wound through North Vancouver, past the Capilano Suspension Bridge, another site on Paulie’s Mel-must-see list. But not until she was older. Not until she could walk by herself. They’d watched the coverage of the woman who’d accidentally dumped her Down’s syndrome kid over the side. (The woman’s flat reaction when she was told the kid had survived.) Paulie wasn’t taking any chances. No kid falling from her arms, plunging hundreds of feet to the ground.
“End of the line, Grouse Mountain,” the bus driver yelled out. They waited for the crush to pass them, and then followed the crowd up the hill to the Skyride ticket counter. The line snaked down the sidewalk.
“I’ll wait,” Tom said. “Go sit down.”
The tram was packed. Paulie elbowed her way up to a window. Tom stayed in the centre, queasy as the swaying tram (Italy: low-flying plane snaps the tram wires and everyone dies. French Alps: old wire breaks and everyone plunges to their deaths) chugged up and up. Mel squealed and hit the window. Paulie’s girl, no fear of heights. Tom was perfectly content to not have a view.
The sun disappeared behind a rolling bank of grey cloud. The first snowflakes, fat and wet, stuck to the north side of the tram as it shuddered and came to a stop.
Mel squinted at the sky as they stepped off, shaking in surprise when a snowflake touched her cheek. Mel looked puzzled and serious as they walked through the snow, the skiers tromping all around them, booted footsteps as heavy as astronauts’.
A shadow blocked the light from the window. Tom raised his head.
Glock Man changed drill bits on the cordless screwdriver and put the TV back together. Muscle Shirt righted the coffee table. He threw a blanket over the couch. They sat, arguing over what to watch, Wheel of Fortune or Wild Weather Week on the Discovery Channel. Glock Man won by slapping Muscle Shirt upside the head.
“As the tropical storm unleashes torrents of rain, the weakening dam bursts,” the deep-voiced host said, thumping danger music accompanying the scene of a family eating supper in their dining room. “The villagers are unaware of the wall of water rushing through the deforested hills above them.”
“Do you want to order a pizza?” Muscle Shirt said.
“Don’t be any dumber than you have to be,” Glock Man said.
“Phone him then. There’s nothing here. I’m not fucking spending the night in this heat trap for nothing. I need air conditioning.”
“Go fucking stick your useless head in the crapper. That’ll cool you down.”
“At least open a window. One window.”
“I’m not warning you again, idiot.”
“Maria Santos is trapped on the highest branch, her frantic family unable to reach her as the water rises.”
“I’m taking a shower,” Muscle Shirt said.
“Good. Go do that.”
Glock Man put his feet up on the coffee table as Muscle Shirt disappeared down the hallway. He turned the TV’S volume up.
Tom’s tongue felt too big for his mouth, felt dry and strange like a piece of rubber. He didn’t feel hot any more. Cold thoughts had worked. Mind over matter. Mel is okay. Mel is fine. Mel is somewhere else.
He remembered a news story where a woman with five children left her baby in the car seat. She thought the babysitter had taken her baby girl out with the other kids. The baby girl was asleep. The mother was tired and late for work. The mother came back six hours later. In the Arizona sun, with the family van’s windows closed –
Think cold. Think Arctic. Polar bears. Midnight sun. A documentary he’d seen with Paulie: two scientists studying polar bears had lived in Churchill, a town directly in the path of migrating bears.
The first scientist grew a patch of sunflowers indoors. Sunflowers turn their heads to follow the sun, and he was wondering what would happen if the sun never set. As the midnight sun began, he planted the flowers outside, and they followed it around and around, followed it until they twisted their own stalks so tight they strangled themselves and died.
“At the top of the hour,” the news anchor said, “Good news about the softwood lumber dispute.”
Bedtime for Mel: bath, brush teeth, change into a nightshirt, change into fresh diaper, read two books, and kiss good night. One stopperful of Tempra if she was teething.
The phone rang. Glock Man and Muscle Shirt exchanged glances. They let the answering machine pick up, Paulie’s voice saying, “We’re busy. Leave short messages, people.”
“Pau-lina,” Jazz sang out. “Where are you? Missed you this morning. I’ll bring the book tomorrow. Again. Phone me back or I’ll kick your butt. Buh-bye.”
Tom’s neck had a crick from the angle he’d been sleeping. His hands and feet and ass felt numb. He kept drifting, jerking awake when the commercials came on. Muscle Shirt sipped a Pepsi – the snap of the tab, the sigh of pressure being released, cold pop can in a hand, throat-aching Pepsi going down. Glock Man leaned forward to watch a tornado smash through a military base.
“Sarge?” a guy’s tentative voice, off-camera. “Maybe we should go down to the basement now?”
“In a minute, in a minute. Whoa! Do you see the power of that thing?”
A baby’s shriek woke him. Then he heard tiny, quick footsteps. Under the doorway, fast-moving shadows dimmed the light coming from the hallway and then passed. He knew he was back in the old apartment he’d shared with his mother, the old Woodcourt Apartments.
“Hello?” Tom said. “Is anyone there?”
The footsteps stopped. He heard a high giggle, like a naughty little kid chuckling over something. Another giggle joined it, and another. The baby cried.
He sat up, disoriented. Across from him was the cot where Jeremy had slept those first few months he’d lived with them when he moved to Vancouver. Tom pushed aside the blankets and swung his legs over the bed. The linoleum was chilly against his bare feet.
“Hello?” Tom said.
He couldn’t tell which room the baby was in. He started looking in his mother’s room. It was overturned, as if she’d been hunting frantically for something, probably clothes or keys, before she left. He heard the shower running, so checked the bathroom. When he slid the shower curtain aside, the tub was filled. Something crashed, and the footsteps ran.
“Damn it,” Tom said.
He poked his head out of the door, saw nothing. The baby’s squall became staccato as it started hyperventilating.
In the kitchen, he opened all the cupboards but there were only sluggishly moving cockroaches inside. The fridge was empty. The oven held a shrivelled piece of burnt meat that had white things growing on it. A man was passed out under the table, but it wasn’t anyone he recognized. He knew he was going to have to wake him up and kick him out, but he wanted to find the kids first before they wrecked anything else or hurt the baby.
The phone rang. As he walked down the hallway, the phone kept ringing and the answering machine didn’t pick up. He ignored it. The storage room had a sliding door. When he pushed it open, cold air ran out. A tiny man, barely coming up to his knees, skittered past him.
Paulina shakily reached out and grabbed his forearm. She was wearing the skin-tight jeans and the white leather jacket with fringe she used to wear in high school. Her hair was strawberry blond again, the way he used to love it, fluffed high in sharp crimps, except for a fist-sized spot above her right ear where it was matted with blood. She pulled him in the storage room and slid the door shut behind them. Her mascara was clumped under her eyes and tracked along her nose as if she’d been crying. She put her index finger to her cotton-candy pink lips and said, “Shh.”
As suddenly as the baby had started screaming, it stopped. The footsteps made their way down the hall to the storage room. The door rattled. Paulina let go of him so that she could hold it shut.
“Shh,” she said.
“Okay, listen up, kiddies. Once upon a time, this cunt had a magic goose that shit golden eggs. She was rich and happy until her daddy ripped the bird a new ass to see if he could get all the gold. Goose died, gold died, cunt and daddy died poor in the fucking gutter. Got it?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Muscle Shirt said.
“Loud and clear,” Glock Man said.
A hand grabbed Tom’s chin, turned his head. He blinked slowly, trying to focus. Blurry man in front of him, buzz cut, khaki shirt, large, square face. The man was someone he knew. He had a name that slipped and slithered around his brain as Tom struggled to keep his head up.
“Anything?”
“Nada,” Muscle Shirt said.
“Clean as a whistle,” Glock Man said.
“Tom.” Someone slapped his face. “Did you give him anything?”
“Firebug, man, relax,” Muscle Shirt said. “We wouldn’t start the party without you.”
“Fuck,” Firebug said. A slap, nothing hard. “Tommy-boy. Wakey, wakey. You morons. Get me some water. Now, kiddies, before our goose bites it.”
Firebug’s arm held him up, helping him through the parking lot to the Ramada Inn near the highway.
“I don’t think Mel has enough diapers,” Tom told the clerk. “She’s eating lots and she needs lots of diapers. And wipes. Does she have any snacks? Did you pack her any snacks?”
“My friend’s had a bit too much,” Firebug said.
The clerk handed back Firebug’s credit card, not amused. “Enjoy your stay.”
“Thanks.”
The elevator was mirrored, and Tom watched himself sway. He did look like he’d pulled an all-nighter, a real humdinger of a binge.
“Is Paulie here?” Tom said, starting to slide down. “Paulie? Paulie?”
Firebug hefted Tom up. “For fuck’s sake, shut up.”
Tom tried to stand by himself and fell into a mirror, the glass cool against his cheek. “Does Mel have enough diapers?”
“I’m giving you some slack now, Tom, because you’re out of it. But I’m going to come down on you hard if you keep bugging me about Mel. Clear?”
“Mel’s teething.”
“Yeah? That’s great. That’s just fucking peachy.”
“Hey, hey, hey,” Firebug said, grabbing his arm. “I told you to stay in the room.”
“Firebug?” Tom said. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m on a fucking convention. Come on.”
Firebug took him by the elbow and led him back to the open door of the hotel room. Firebug sat him on the chair at the desk and opened a ginger ale. He put two white caplets in Tom’s hand and the can of pop in the other.
Firebug leaned in close as if he saw something tiny on Tom’s face and wanted to get a good look at it. “You are one sneaky little shit, Tom Bauer. Are you awake?”
“I think we left Mel in the car seat.”
“Or are you faking it?”
“She’s not here. I checked. We have to go get Mel.”
Firebug gripped Tom’s arms and gave him a shake. The ginger ale sloshed onto their pants. “Mel’s not in the car seat. There is no car seat. Stop talking about the fucking car seat.”
Tom cocked his head. “Can you hear her crying? I can hear her crying. Paulie must be asleep. We have to go back to the car. I think we left Mel in the car seat.”
Firebug sucked in a deep breath. “Up. Get up.”
Tom followed Firebug into the bathroom. He blanked for a moment, and when he came to, Firebug sat him on the toilet.
Tom stared at his clothes. Firebug folded them and put them in the trash can. Firebug left the bathroom and came back with a dry-cleaning bag and pair of clippers. He draped the white plastic bag around Tom shoulders.
“Hold this,” Firebug said.
Tom held the bag in place as Firebug sheared his head. His hair fell in clumps, looking lank and greasy, coiled into half-moons on the bleached-white floor tiles. The buzz from the clippers rattled his skull.
“All pretty for your big scene tomorrow.”
Firebug took the bag and put it in the trash. He used his hand to scoop the hair on the floor into piles and then he trashed that too.
“Something’s wrong,” Tom said.
“Get up,” Firebug said. “Good Tom. Very good. In the shower.”
In the mirror over the bathroom sink, he watched Firebug turning the shower on. The water that hit him was lukewarm. He tried to step away from it, but Firebug held his left wrist, took a white bar of soap and lifted Tom’s arm. Firebug scrubbed one pit then the other.
“I know something’s wrong.”
“Figured that out all by yourself, did you?” Firebug soaped his chest and stomach. “Yeah, you’re a regular Sherlock Holmes.”
Daylight crowned the hills in the distance, but the vault of the sky was blue-black with a wispy ring of pearl-white light at its centre. In the false night of the total eclipse, the birds stopped singing, the bees stopped droning, and the cows in the field lined up and headed back to the barn. His cousins ran screaming through the front yard, bug-eyed with dark goggles as Uncle Lowell chased them. Aunt Faith and his mother stood on the porch, laughing. Tom put his hand in Jeremy’s because Jeremy was smiling down at him. He felt safe.
“The mood is set,” Jeremy said. “Candles, soft music, a horny teenager, and his hot babe aaaaand action.”
Tom sat on the grey suede sofa. Lilia sat beside him in a blue dress, the artfully tattered hem spread around her like ruffled tulip petals. Jeremy held up the camcorder and waved his hand. On the large-screen TV in front of the sofa, he could see duplicates of him and Lilia. Lilia’s manicured hand touched his hair. She was not his type – too sharp, all cheekbones and collarbones, and long arms and legs, and bored, hooded green eyes. Her mass of blue-black waves (one peek-a-boo wave over her right eye) was too retro, too cool for school, and he felt uncomfortable touching her, like he was fondling a really expensive vase that he’d have to pay for if he broke.
“You’re sitting beside a beautiful woman who’s willing to pop your cherry,” Jeremy said. “So you should probably look a tad bit excited instead of like you’re swallowing a bug.”
“I don’t want to do this,” Tom said. “I don’t think we should do this.”
“Lil, give the boy some encouragement.”
“I think the star has nerves.” Lilia sat back. “I’m feeling kind of antsy myself. Do you want to do some blow?”
“Go for it.”
“I’m serious, Jer.”
“Once the star’s blown, you’ll get your blow.”
Lilia scratched her face. “Come on, Jer. The teamsters demand a refreshment break. At least give Tom a hoot.”
“No hoot for the star. Come on, we’re wasting precious time here.”
“A couple of lines,” Lilia said. “That’s all. Come on, Jer. You want us to fly, don’t you? You want to watch us fly?”
“Oh, all right. The director caves to the unreasonable demands of the union.”
Lilia and Jeremy snorted lines off the glass coffee table. Jeremy reached over and wiped the fine white powder off Lilia’s left nostril.
“How about Tommy-baby?” Lilia said, smiling wide. “Let’s get Tommy-baby on board.”
“Tommy-baby can’t handle anything. You give him anything and he passes out.”
“Do you want a hoot?” Lilia said to him.
“Yes.”
“I don’t have any pot,” Jeremy said.
“I’ve got some in my purse. Right back, don’t go anywhere.” With a flirty toss of her hair, she strode out of the room.
“Jeremy,” Tom said. “Could you not tape it at least?”
“You’ll thank me later when you want to watch it.”
“But I won’t want to watch it. Jeremy. There’re some things you don’t record, you know?”
“Like what?”
“Like this! You don’t videotape your … your … stuff. You don’t see people going to funerals with camcorders and sticking them in the caskets, do you? You don’t go around videotaping your dog taking a dump, do you? You don’t go showing people your colonoscopy, do you?”
“Ugh. I think Lil’s right. You need a couple of hoots.”
“Here we are! A baggie full of sunshine!” Lilia said.
He smoked a joint while Lilia and Jeremy watched him. Jeremy went back to his director’s chair, and Lilia put her hands on Tom’s shoulders.
“Lie back,” she said. “And think of England.”
“You’re ruining the mood, people,” Jeremy yelled at them as they rolled around the sofa, laughing their asses off. “We had a mood going, and you’re ruining it.”
Tom’s hands tingled. The pain dragged him out of sleep. He heard birds. Leaves shushed. He peeled his cheek off the plaid cover of the bench seat he was lying on. His handcuffs clanged against the exposed metal of the steering wheel as he sprang upright. He wasn’t sure if it was early morning or twilight. He couldn’t remember falling asleep or how he’d gotten into the truck.
“Paulie!” he shouted. “Mel! Paulie!”
The old Ford was parked on the shoulder of a narrow gravel road crowded with trees. The road wound up a hill and had a puffy line of browning grass marking the centre. Tom tugged at the cuffs that were threaded through the wheel. The cuffs were steel and double-hinged. The steering wheel’s rubber cover was attached to the metal core with duct tape.
“Paulie! Mel! Paulie!”
If he wanted to, he could honk the horn. He could kick the parking brake off. He could open the door. He was reasonably sure he could yank the steering column off. Instead, he leaned forward and rested his head on the wheel as his chest tightened and his breath came in shallow gasps. He could get them killed if he did something stupid. He could get them killed if he did nothing. He could sit here and be good and hope for the best. They might not even be here. Or they might be twenty feet away.
The windows were open. Tom leaned out as a wave of nausea emptied his stomach down the side of the truck. Stringy bile sparkled against the dark blue rust-splotched paint. His head ached, a steady, heavy throb in his temples.
Paulie would do something. Paulie would not sit obediently like a dumb dog. Paulie would take the truck apart to stay in the game.
Tom pressed the horn but it didn’t make a sound. He pressed both sides of the horn, and then slammed his hands against the wheel again and again in a fit. This isn’t helpful, he told himself. Calm down.
Bracing his feet against the dashboard, he grabbed the steering wheel and tried to pry it off. He’d seen it done somewhere, a movie, something with Arnie or Sylvester or Jean-Claude. Nothing happened, except his wrist bones were scraped raw. He paused, trying not to hyperventilate.
He used his foot to pull off the parking brake. The truck didn’t move. Tom slammed himself forward and then back, forward and back. The truck rolled slowly backward until it rested against a fat-trunked tree that showered brown needles in the cab.
A hiker could be nearby. Or a hunter. Tom opened his mouth, but couldn’t bring himself to yell for help. He didn’t know why it was embarrassing, even now when his life literally depended on it.
“Fire!” he shouted. “Fire!”
The truck smelled like old sweat, like a gym locker, funky like socks that could stand by themselves. The dashboard was faded where the sun hit and dark blue underneath. The floor was pebbled plastic, dusty blue with dirt and gravel. The bench seat was worn on the driver’s side so Tom tilted toward the door. His wrists were shredded from his attempts to pull off the steering wheel. He had managed to crack the plastic on the left side. He let his head fall back. The sun had cleared the tops of the trees. Tom wondered what time that meant.
He’d left them at six. He’d checked in with Paulie during his coffee break at nine, and she’d sounded fine. Annoyed and tired, actually. Mel had been hard to put down. The TV had been loud in the background, Mary Hart’s polished chirp accompanied by the Entertainment Tonight theme song. Paulie had mumbled responses and finally’d said she needed to get to the dishes but Tom knew she really wanted to veg and wasn’t up to distracting him from work’s soul-crushing monotony. A full day and night had passed since they’d been snatched.
He caught his reflection in the rear-view mirror, startled again by his baldness. He remembered a motel, or a hotel, a clerk. A potential witness. Firebug could hardly be planning to kill them if he was dragging Tom in front of potential witnesses. Firebug wasn’t sloppy. Something, something, he couldn’t understand why his thoughts were so scattered, why everything was jumbled and jerky.
Jazz would check in, would make sure that no backsliding was taking place on her watch. She had phoned, Tom remembered that. Jazz had left a message, something about a book. Shirl would miss them in the morning. She might not be alarmed enough to visit. Maybe after a few days, she’d wonder where they went, be annoyed that she had no recess from the twins. Stan would call tomorrow when he didn’t show for work, but wouldn’t be too concerned. People quit Lucky Lou’s all the time without giving notice.
Paulie wouldn’t go down without a slugfest. Maybe one of the neighbours had seen or heard something. Maybe they’d already called the police. Maybe someone had gone to their apartment and seen the mess and put two and two together and there was an all-points bulletin out for them.
But Paulie wouldn’t do anything that would get Mel hurt. If they got Mel first, Paulie would bide her time. The neighbours might have heard the commotion but assumed he and Paulie were still renovating. They’d banged around like crazy these last few days.
It didn’t make sense. Muscle Shirt had called him a snitch, but Tom had kept his mouth shut. Paulie’d never go running to the cops, not with her record. They were such small fry, it wasn’t funny. It had to be a sick, stupid joke.
But Firebug lacked a sense of ha-ha. Personality type A-B, All Business. Everything in its place. Firebug’s perfectly tidy writing, textbook cursive. A dot for every “i” and a cross for every “t.” Firebug wasn’t random. Doesn’t make any sense, doesn’t make any sense, doesn’t. Sense.
He pounded on the steering wheel, willing it to break. He braced his feet again. He would run up the road to the top of the hill and see what he could see from there. He would circle the truck, expanding his search in widening circles in case Paulie and Mel were nearby. He would find them. They were alive. Firebug wasn’t random.
Something popped. Tom scrambled for the door, kicking off his sneakers to fit his toes under the handle. The door swung open with a loud creak. Tom slid outside, braced himself on the running boards, and, grabbing the wheel, used his weight and all his strength to pull. The steering wheel groaned, and then clicked, and he could feel a minute shift.
Then he heard heavy footsteps crunching on the gravel. Tom raised his head to look over the door. Firebug walked down the hill. He was wearing fatigues and black boots. His holstered gun bulged under his shirt. His sunglasses glinted as he turned his head, his attention caught by something in the woods. Tom yanked on the wheel, yanked and twisted and bounced, trying to make it break faster.
The footsteps stopped near him. Tom listened. He turned to find Firebug watching him. He stood, swallowing.
“Hey,” Tom said. “Firebug, I –”
“You don’t speak until you’re spoken to,” Firebug said.
Tom found himself babbling, unable to stop. “Please. Please, can I see them? Please, Firebug. Please, I –”
“Paulie’s right there,” Firebug said, making a small movement with his head.
The road was empty. Tom turned his head back in time to see Firebug’s fist. Tom spun, still tethered to the steering wheel, falling back against the bench seat as he tasted old pennies, blood in his mouth from where he’d bit his tongue. It felt like his scalp was too tight, like he had a rat bite above his ear. Firebug shook out his hand, his solid silver ring washed with blood.
“I ask the questions,” Firebug said.
The bile rose up so fast, even though Tom tried to avoid it, he ended up spraying Firebug across the chest. Tom coughed, shaking, his throat burning. Firebug lifted his shirt. He stared at the vomit and then at Tom.
“If you were anyone else,” Firebug said, “I would have shot you long ago.”
“Stop here,” Firebug said, poking Tom’s ribs with the tip of his .45 Para-Ordnance pistol, Betty. (“The only woman who was ever faithful to me.” Firebug in the maudlin stage of drunk, rubbing Betty along his cheek in a smoke-hazed kitchen. “Good, old Betty.”)
The clearing was about a hundred feet from the truck. The trees surrounding the clearing were tall and had white, peeling bark. Tom didn’t know what kind of trees they were. Their crowns were high overhead and their leaves flashed dark green and then light green, dark and light as a breeze blew through the canopy. The trunks were thin. Firebug unsnapped Tom’s cuffs.
“Please remove your shirt,” Firebug said. He held out a black garbage bag, keeping the pistol trained at the centre of Tom’s guts. The handcuffs glittered and clinked at the bottom of the bag with his sneakers. Firebug had coils of thin, white rope thrown over his shoulder.
Tom struggled to make his fingers work. They were cold and Novocaine-numb. He was shaking. He pulled his T-shirt over his head and dropped it in the bag.
“Your pants, please,” Firebug said.
He dropped his eyes. Just like a doctor’s office, visit to the doctor, he told himself even as he felt heat creeping up his neck.
“Tom,” Firebug said. “I don’t want to repeat myself. Do you understand?”
Tom nodded. He undid his button and then his zipper and pushed his pants down his legs and stepped out of them. He bent over, picked them up, and dropped them in the garbage bag.
“Good,” Firebug said. “Socks, please.”
Tom lifted one foot and then the other.
“Underwear, please.”
He didn’t think about what he was doing. He kept his eyes on a spot past Firebug, and then on the truck. Firebug put the garbage bag down.
“Please back up,” Firebug said.
Tom stepped back and then back again until he felt a tree trunk behind him. The trunk wasn’t thick, but the tree was solid and didn’t move when he leaned against it.
“Kneel,” Firebug said.
The ground was dusty. Firebug pushed him into position, legs apart, back resting against the bark. Firebug folded Tom’s forearms behind the trunk. His joints popped in protest, the muscles across his chest and down his arms twinged from the stress.
“I’m going to keep the pressure off your wrists,” Firebug said. “Don’t want to risk nerve damage, do we?”
Jaunty. Very jaunty. Things were going well in Firebug’s world. Rope went around Tom’s stomach, around his chest, and finally around his neck.
“Be quiet,” Firebug said, patting Betty who was safely back in her rig. “Or I’ll shoot your kneecaps.”
Firebug picked up the garbage bag and slung it over his shoulder like a Santa sack. He strolled back to the truck as if he had all the time in the world. Tom could wiggle, could shift his legs, but if he moved too much, the rope tightened around his neck and he quickly stopped.
His heart, his heart, his chest hurt because his heart was vibrating like a rung bell. Trees and sunshine, leaves, fierce summer light, smooth dusty ground. Paulie and Mel, somewhere, alive, please, alive and unhurt. His breathing rapid and loud in the clearing. He wanted to memorize his location. Two kinds of trees. Deciduous. Leafy trees. Needles and leaves. The sad total of what he remembered from high-school biology.
He jerked at the whine of a small motor. Firebug leaned into his truck, hand vacuuming. Tom’s guts iced, clenched. All the “i”s dotted, “t”s crossed. All evidence of his existence hoovered up and tossed into a plain black garbage bag.
Firebug walked back and forth between the truck and Tom. First, he brought back a camcorder and a tripod. He adjusted the tripod so the camcorder was level with Tom’s head. On the next trip, he brought back a green camp chair, which he set up in front of Tom. He placed a tackle box on one side of the chair and a navy blue duffle bag on the other. He snapped open the tackle box. The top layer was all lures and spoons. He lifted the fishing stuff off, and underneath were Firebug’s real tools, neatly compartmentalized: a mini-torch, the kind that caramelized crème brûlée; a pair of red-handled needle-nose pliers; stainless steel surgical scalpels; thick needles, the kind that Paulie had used to sew canvas.
Firebug pulled a small bag of white powder out of his pants pocket. He opened the bag and then reached into the tackle box and picked up a tiny spoon that he used to scoop up the powder. Coke or crank – either way, it wasn’t promising.
“Bump?” Firebug said, offering Tom the spoon.
Tom shook his head.
Firebug snorted the bump and sat back, tapping the spoon on the chair. He closed the bag and put it and the spoon in his pocket. He admired the clearing before he bent over and picked up one of the needles. He rolled it between his fingers. “I’m not a big believer in chainsaws. Jer … well, Jer’s watched Scarface one too many times. I say once you hack off a limb, you’ve peaked.”
“Anything you want,” Tom said. “Anything.”
Firebug stuck the needle in the back of his hand like it was a pin cushion. Firebug picked up the pliers and the mini blowtorch. He patted his pockets until he came up with a lighter. The blowtorch hissed and then whooshed to life as Firebug brought the lighter close to it.
If Tom was standing, he would have fallen. He felt boneless, his bones had dissolved. He sagged against the ropes, hoping he’d pass out.
“Anything,” Tom said. “Anything, Firebug. Anything you want. I have money. Do you want money? I have seventy thousand dollars. I have three keys of coke. They’re yours.”
Firebug plucked the needle out of his hand with the pliers. He passed the blowtorch along the needle until it glowed orange. The air above the flame quivered.
“Did I do something?” Tom said. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what I did. You have to tell me what I did. Please. Please, don’t. Please, Firebug. Please.”
Firebug shut off the torch and put it beside the chair. He reached over to the camcorder and turned it on. He stared into the camera. “Jer, old buddy, old pal. You have something that belongs to me. And now I have something that belongs to you. Look at the camera, Tom, and beg Jeremy for your life.”
Tom launched himself up, trying to stand. He could kick then. The ropes creaked. He could hear himself grunting as he strained to make the ropes move.
Firebug’s arm pulled back. Sunlight showed the thinning spots at his temples, shining with sweat. Lips pursed in concentration, eyes wide and fixed, Firebug jabbed.
For a moment, Tom thought he missed. But the needle hadn’t connected yet. The skin of Tom’s left nipple sizzled as the needle touched. He could hear it, the sound like a match being pinched out by wet fingers. His chest exploded. He convulsed. His back arched and his body went rigid as Firebug forced the needle in until it grated against bone.
Nothing existed. Nothing had ever existed but the pain. He squealed, he heard the sounds ripping through his throat, and he fought the ropes. He screamed and he screamed and he threw himself forward so the ropes would tighten and it would end.