The Wake-Up (24 page)

Thorpe nodded. He had no idea what Claire’s teaching schedule was.

“Imagine this scenario. I want your cooperation, but you resist. Now, I can have Gregor start snapping your fingers and toes, but there’s a problem with that. At a certain point, when the pain becomes too severe, you pass out.” The Engineer paced back and forth. “So all you have to do is tough it out, knowing if I go too far, you’re unconscious. Even if you
do
talk, how can I be sure you’re telling me the truth?”

“Why don’t you try a nice dinner and a movie?” Thorpe heard the front gate squeak.

The Engineer peeked through the curtains. “Oh goody, Frank. It’s your little fuck toy.”

Thorpe jumped up, but Gregor punched him in the solar plexus, dropped him hard. Thorpe lay on the floor, twitching. He heard Claire’s footsteps on the sidewalk, heard her ring the bell. Heard her call his name.

The Engineer got down on the floor next to Thorpe. “Should I get that?”

“No,” Thorpe gasped.

“Lazurus looked at the photos for a long time, then he took the blowtorch and burned them up,” whispered the Engineer, mimicking the voice he had used in the park when Thorpe tried to squeeze him. “First he burned the photographs . . . then . . . then, he burned the broker.” He smiled at Thorpe. “It’s the catch in the voice that I was most proud of. That’s what made you a believer. Do you remember what you said to me then?”

Claire knocked harder.

“You said, ‘That’s a sad story, and when this is over, we’ll sit down with some herb tea and have a good cry.’
That’s
what you told me.”

“Damn it, Frank, open the door,” said Claire. “I know you’re in there. It’s important.”

The Engineer’s lips brushed Thorpe’s ear. “Why don’t we invite her in to have some herb tea with us? It’s rude not to, don’t you think?”

“I’ll take you . . . to the locker.”

“Promise? Cross your heart and hope to die?”

“Yes.” Thorpe listened to Claire’s retreating footsteps.

“If you’re not telling the truth, we’re going to come back for her,” said the Engineer, using his own voice again. “I’ll make you watch the whole thing. The
whole
thing, every minute of it. You wouldn’t believe what I’m capable of when I put my heart and soul into it, Frank.”

Thorpe needed help to get to his feet.

43

“I missed driving.” The Engineer sat behind the wheel of the big Buick sedan. “The worst part of the role I played with Lazurus was having to be chauffeured around all the time. Gregor has his uses, but he’s not very good company.”

Gregor grunted from the backseat.

Thorpe stared straight ahead, the passenger seat slightly sprung from regularly supporting Gregor’s weight. He coughed, tried not to struggle against the leather belt around his neck, the belt binding him to the steel rails of the Buick’s headrest, giving him not more than two or three inches of slack. He hooked a finger into the leather, tugged without effect. “You could loosen this thing.”

“Yes, I could,” said the Engineer.

Thorpe carefully turned his head as they stopped for a red light. He could see a car in the next lane, a Plymouth van with a woman talking on a cell phone, too busy to notice him. It probably wouldn’t have mattered if she had, since the belt looked like a collar. He was just glad they had slipped out of his apartment without being spotted by Claire. If she had come out to greet him, she would have been in the back with Gregor.

“How much farther, Frank?” asked the Engineer.

Thorpe’s mouth was dry.

Gregor jerked on the belt. “Speak, horsey.”

Thorpe coughed, tore at the belt with both hands. “A few more miles.”

“Gregor is a man of simple pleasures,” said the Engineer. “Most of them cruel.”

Thorpe wheezed.

“Comfortable?” asked the Engineer.

Gregor jerked at the belt again.

Thorpe gasped, arms flailing.

“Sit back and enjoy the ride, Gregor,” said the Engineer. “Frank’s not going anywhere.”

The backseat upholstery groaned as Gregor settled in.

“You could learn something from this experience,” said the Engineer, expansive, one hand on the wheel as he drove. “All the hard work you put in when you thought I was working for Lazurus, all the time you and Kimberly spent, just to make me cooperate willingly.” He shook his head. “Yet, here we are, after just a few minutes of quiet conversation, and all you want to do is please me. You
do
want to please me, don’t you?” He waited in vain for an answer. “There’s no reason we both can’t come away from this richer for the experience.” He glanced at Thorpe with those sleepy eyes. “May I give you a bit of advice?”

“Oh, I’d welcome that.”

“Your methods betray a certain . . . arrogance,” said the Engineer. “Clever operators like you play a chess game with the target, following him around, moving your pieces into position. Suddenly, the man opens his eyes and he’s in check. Now he has no choice but to move wherever you want him to.” His mouth tightened. “Move into some safe house perhaps, with digital cameras everywhere, recording his every fart for posterity. That’s not
my
way. I’m an artist, not a chess master. I simply find out what the target
loves
”—he licked his lips— “and I let my imagination soar.”

“What do you love?” asked Thorpe.

“You just may find out, Frank.”

“Stay on the PCH past Seal Beach.” Thorpe croaked, his vocal cords bruised. “I’ll tell you when to turn.”

“I enjoy Southern California,” said the Engineer. “I like the wealth and the women, the sunny days and the cool nights, but most of all, I like the absence of insects. No mosquitoes, no chiggers, no cockroaches. I grew up in South Florida in a home without air conditioning. The place was crawling with insects; all those little legs waving . . . you can’t imagine what it was like. Roaches that fly, roaches the size of hummingbirds flying in your face when you turned on the light, and the sound of those papery wings . . . I used to check my bed every night, but there was always a surprise.” He nodded at Thorpe. “What about you? Where did you grow up, Frank?”

“Is this the part where I realize that we’re not really all that different, and we kind of sort of become best buddies?”

“How much farther?” snapped the Engineer.

Thorpe allowed himself a smile, pleased that he had annoyed the Engineer. Anything to knock him even slightly off balance. “I’m going to kill you. I’m going to kill the both of you.”

The Engineer laughed. “How many times have we heard that before, Gregor?”

The belt jerked into Thorpe’s throat, and Thorpe arched his back as Gregor slowly tightened his grip.

“It’s not so easy to be brave without air, is it, Frank?” said the Engineer. “All those lofty emotions just go by the wayside.”

Thorpe kicked at the dash, reached back for Gregor, and clawed at his face, dug his nails in. He heard the bodyguard howl, the belt tightening as Thorpe pulled at the leather, struggling to get a grip.

“That’s enough, Gregor. I’m sure Frank has learned his lesson.”

Thorpe gasped as Gregor eased off on the belt, snot running from his nose.

“You wouldn’t believe the thoughts that run through my head sometimes,” said the Engineer. “If I wasn’t a morally strong person, they would drive me quite mad.” He kept the Buick right at the legal limit. “The first time Claire got a look at me, I knew she didn’t like me. It wasn’t my innocuous pose she was responding to; she actually seemed to sense my true nature. Feminine intuition, Frank, it disgusts me. It allows them to take unfair advantage. Then, when I realized that she had lied to me, lied to protect you, I found myself possessed of a most extreme resentment. It almost clouded my judgment. I almost got into my car and followed her. My mental clarity prevailed, but still . . . I had such thoughts.”

“We’re almost there.” Thorpe tried to slow his heart, but all the training in the world wouldn’t have helped now.

“The storage locker is just the beginning,” said the Engineer. “I want names and numbers, bank accounts and buried treasure. Search your memory.
Empty
yourself.”

Gregor tightened the belt again.

“Let him breathe, Gregor,” said the Engineer. “Suffocation is our most primal fear, Frank, more basic than our fear of falling. In the womb itself, we dread that slow strangulation—a kink in the soft umbilicus, and our pink spaceman’s face turns blue, then black. All the interrogation equipment in the world, all the sharp instruments and sophisticated electronics . . . I find them irrelevant to the task. Just give me a plastic bag; that’s all I require.” He patted Thorpe’s leg. “Imagine the lady Claire fighting for breath, twisting and struggling, hands flapping like a baby bird. . . . Trust me, Frank, you would tell me
anything
to bring her a single breath. You would even tell me the truth.”

Thorpe stared straight ahead. It was another few blocks before he could speak without betraying his pain and frustration, without betraying his own small hopes. “At the next light, just past the water tower . . . take a left.” They left the storefronts and restaurants lining the PCH. “Another left here.”

They paralleled a nautical-themed housing development in Sunset Beach, the nearby marina brightly lighted, lined with small yachts and sailboats. A network of canals led out to the ocean, allowing the residents access to the open sea.

“Fancy neighborhood for a storage locker,” said the Engineer.

“It’s not located in a commercial storage complex—cops are always watching those for stolen goods. It’s a private garage. I rent it by the year.”

The Engineer nodded.

“The street comes to a T at the end of the block,” said Thorpe. “Make a right at the dock and then follow the road along the canal.”

As the Engineer slowed the big Buick to make the turn, Thorpe stuck out his left foot, jammed the accelerator to the floor. The engine raced, and the car shot straight ahead and over the walkway, the bottom scraping as they lurched over the seawall, briefly airborne. Thorpe lowered his window as the nose of the car hit the water, bobbed once or twice. A wave crested over the hood, and the car started sinking.

The Engineer tugged at the belt around Thorpe’s neck. “You forget about
this,
Frank?”

“I haven’t forgotten a thing,” said Thorpe, his eyes locked on the Engineer as the water rose past their knees, seeing what he thought was just a hint of fear in the man now.

Gregor pushed at his door but couldn’t budge it against the weight of the water. He tried to lower his window, got it halfway down before the electrical system shorted out. The water rose faster now, past the windows, filling the interior, splashing their feet, their knees, rising past their chests. Gregor screamed as the water rushed in, his head banging against the roof as the car slanted forward and settled onto the bottom.

The Engineer started to say something to Thorpe, but the water rushed over him.

The last of the air bubbled past Thorpe’s face, tickling him as it percolated out his open window. He fought to stay calm, husbanding his last inhalation as the disturbed silt rose in a cloud. The water was clear and cold, but only fifteen or twenty feet deep. He could see the lights on the dock shimmering above them.

With the pressure equalized now, the Engineer slowly pushed his door open. He went to release his seat belt, but Thorpe laid his hand over the clip, made a fist, and the Engineer
knew,
fear blooming on that soft face like a poisonous anemone.

Gregor kicked at his door, but it was locked, and in his panic, he was jerking the handle in the wrong direction. More kicks, but he couldn’t get any leverage. Buoyant as a whale, he bobbed around the backseat, struggling, using all his air. He beat his fists against the window, shattered the thick glass, and started wriggling through.

The Engineer tore at Thorpe’s hand on the release buckle, mouthing something.

Thorpe hung on to the buckle as the Engineer’s nails scratched him, the cold numbing the pain. There was a tiny flame in his lungs, but he could control it, keep it small. He thought of Claire, remembered the first morning he had awakened in her bed and seen her beside him.

Gregor was stuck halfway through the broken window, his vast middle too big to squeeze through, caught on the remnants of the safety glass at the bottom of the frame. The tiny chunks of glass were like baby teeth, and the more he struggled, the more the glass nibbled into him. Gouts of blood drifted through the interior of the car.

The Engineer lunged toward his own open door, gripped the jamb, strained to pull himself free, but his seat belt held him tight. Eyes wide now, he punched at Thorpe, hitting him in the face, but his blows were weak, slowed by the water.

Thorpe didn’t try to defend himself—just let himself be hit, watching tiny bubbles pop out the sides of the Engineer’s mouth like a broken strand of pearls. The Engineer kept beating at him, his eyes darting from side to side, but Thorpe stayed calm. Exertion used oxygen. So did fear.

The Engineer grabbed at something under his seat, pulled out a gun, but the weapon slipped out of his hands. Thorpe ignored the gun, just as he had ignored the punches, concentrating only on the buckle of the seat belt. The flame in his lungs was growing. Hard to keep it under control. The Engineer strained against him, his face contorted, thrashing wildly now, as though shot with electricity. They watched each other and Thorpe saw the light in the Engineer’s eyes grow dimmer, saw the rage flare one final time and then go out. The Engineer’s movements became fluid, racked with grace, his arms like seaweed on the tide.

Thorpe’s chest was ablaze, head throbbing, spots dancing in front of his eyes. He didn’t know what was funny, but it was all he could do to keep from laughing. He wanted to tell the joke to Claire. He fumbled at his seat belt, released it, his feet rising, his neck still affixed to the headrest. He braced himself, put both hands on the headrest, and lifted. It didn’t budge. He felt sleepy. He thought maybe he should take a nap, then try again.
Bad
idea. He pushed at the rails of the headrest. It should have been easy.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Gregor, still lodged in the window, no longer struggling, his purple jogging suit rippling.

The cold worked its way deeper into Thorpe as he tugged at the headrest, slowly inching it up. He got his feet under him now, squatting on the seat, lifting with his hands and his legs. The headrest popped out of the seat. Free . . . free . . . free.

The Engineer watched him, dead eyes bulging.

Thorpe started out the window, felt a tug on his foot, looked back. It was shadowy in the car, paper and trash suspended in the murk, but he could see the Engineer’s fingers bumping against his ankle, moving with the current, as though waving good-bye. Thorpe kicked away from him, squeezed out through the window, out and up to the light, the leather belt still around his neck, trailing the headrest.