Carl is snapping off shots of me from the passenger seat. Real ones this time, digitally recorded. We left the photography store two hours ago, yet we’re still crammed in Houston traffic, a mile from the hotel. We’ve traveled six miles.
Every minute we sit here, I’m a minute angrier. Not once has Carl stopped fiddling with his new toy, the one I paid for with blackmail money so a man in a Willie Nelson shirt wouldn’t snatch my dog.
“I don’t know if I killed anyone,” Carl is saying, “but I’ve always considered every picture I take to be a little murder. My Hasselblad sounded like a gunshot when I fired it. A solid, good sound. That, and it’s inevitable that my subjects will be dead someday when someone looks at their pictures.”
“How about you give it a rest with the camera.” I can’t keep the edge out of my voice. “The traffic’s tough. It’s very distracting.”
He adjusts the lens and shifts it back up to his eye. Snaps off another shot. “The traffic is standing still,” he says. “All you have to do is keep your foot on the brake. But all right. How about a game of Twenty Questions?”
“Whatever makes you stop.”
He presses the shutter. Three more rapid-fire shots. “You’re very hard to resist. Your face has intriguing angles. Forgive me, but I haven’t had a camera in my hand for over a year.”
“I don’t like my picture taken.” Forgiveness does not apply to you, Carl.
“That’s why you take a good picture. It’s a myth that traditional beauties make the best photographs. You, you’re real. Hurting. Hell-bent. My camera appreciates that kind of honesty.”
“That’s some irony—that you think I’m honest.” I press lightly on the gas and inch forward two feet.
“My camera is deaf. It’s not listening to the lies coming out of your mouth. When I look through this little hole, I see a sweet, ordinary girl. I see the soft heart beating away. The taut muscle on your arms and legs that is a layer of pretend. A brain that is quick but frankly maybe not quite quick enough.”
“You can’t analyze me like those women in the diner. You have no idea who I am.”
“It’s…animal.”
I turn my head sharply. “What?” You’re the freaking animal.
“Animal, vegetable, or mineral. The game. I’m giving you the first answer for free. It’s animal.”
I swallow hard. “Can I see it with my little eye?” I hope the sarcasm hides the fact that he is once again drilling into my nerves. “Is it Barfly?”
“No. And no. You just wasted two questions.”
“Is it furry?”
“No.”
“Scaly?”
“No.”
“Does it have smooth skin?”
“Yes. Fifteen questions left.”
“Does it have a tail?”
“No.”
“Is it fast?”
“Dumb question. Everything is fast when it’s scared.”
“Is it something found in the sea?”
“Yes, it could be found in the sea.”
“Is it that octopus with the weird ears that you liked on Discovery Channel?”
“That’s nine questions, and you’re way off track. Think more broadly. Animal was a very broad category when my brother and I played. Didn’t you ever have a brother or sister to play this game with?”
I slam on the brakes as a blue Toyota whips in front of me.
“Jesus, watch out. Now you seem distracted. Maybe we should stop playing.”
“I’m fine.” I’m beginning to have an uneasy feeling about Carl’s game, a game I’ve never been good at. “Does it have wings?”
“No, it does not have wings.”
“Eight legs?”
“No.”
“Six?”
“No.”
“Four?”
“No.”
“Two?”
“Two?” Carl echoes.
“Two legs. Carl, is this animal a human being?”
“Yes. Good job. You are thinking broadly.”
“Is this person…female?”
“Yes. You’ve got four questions left.”
“Is she…dead?”
“Yes. Dead people are allowed in this game. People from the past. Historical figures. Dead celebrities. People you know.”
“Does her name start with an N?” I stutter.
“No.”
Not Nicole.
“Does her name start with a V?”
“Nope.”
Not Vickie. Not Violet.
“One question left and there are twenty-four more letters of the alphabet,” Carl says. “Your odds aren’t good if this is the route you are taking.”
“An R? Did her name start with R?” I can’t bear to say my sister’s name to him.
“You’re out of questions,” Carl says. “And you’re barking at me. You lose.”