What Comes Next (37 page)

“Audie, pay attention!”

He heard his brother’s sharp words, bringing his vision back down from the skies.

“Come on, Audie, focus!”

“You okay, professor?”

“I’m fine.”

“Well, the hassle is trying to determine what’s real and what isn’t. That’s the trouble with the Internet. It’s a place where lying and fantasy and all sorts of deceptive stuff exists right next to real good, solid information. Hard to separate the two. Even in the sex world, you know. What’s real. What isn’t.”

“Snuff films…”

“Like I said, big phony. But…”

Wolfe hesitated. He rolled his words over, as if he tasted each before speaking, and added, “But all those myths, well, they only create
opportunity,
if you know what I mean, professor.”

“Explain.”

“Well, snuff films don’t exist. But as soon as the FBI or Interpol says, ‘Snuff films are an urban legend,’ it only encourages people to try, professor. That’s the thing about the Internet. It exists to make something out of something else. You say something’s untrue, and someone else, maybe on the other side of the world, is out there trying to prove you wrong. Like, maybe killing porn for real doesn’t exist, but… You pick up the paper in the morning what do you read? Some kids maybe in Eastern Europe filmed themselves beating someone to death. For kicks. Or maybe some guys in California filmed themselves killing a hitchhiker after making her perform all sorts of acts. Or… well, you get the idea. A terrorist takes a hostage and cuts his head off on film. It gets posted on the Internet. Well, the CIA and the military are all over it. But who else? It’s out there for anyone.”

“What are you telling me?”

“I’m saying that if little…”—he looked at the flyer and a lascivious grin broke out on his face before continuing—”Jennifer is being used, it makes sense. And it could be coming from next door or maybe on the other side of the world.”

“How will you look?” Adrian asked.

“There are ways. You just keep punching those keys. It might cost some money.”

“Money? How so?”

“You think that people exploit other people for nothing? Maybe just because they like it? Sure, maybe some do. But other people, they want to make a buck. And getting in to those sites, well…

” I’ll pay.

Wolfe smiled again. “It can be pricey…”

Again he heard his brother echoing commands in his ear. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. He removed a credit card and handed it to Wolfe.

“What password shall I use?” the sex offender asked.

Adrian shrugged. He could see no need for deception.
“Psychprof,”
he replied. “And keep a written record of every place you use it. Any excess charges and I’ll go straight to the cops.”

Wolfe nodded but even this motion might have been a lie. Adrian didn’t care.
I’m not going to live long enough to worry about these bills.

“You have to move fast. I don’t know how much time she might have.”

Wolfe shrugged. “If she’s someone’s toy, and he wants to share her—”

“He and she,” Adrian interrupted.

“That’s right. Two people. That might make it easier. Anyway, if they want to share her, well, that’s good, because that’s what you want, because she will be there, somewhere.”

He laughed again. Adrian thought Wolfe had the type of laugh that penetrated through walls, like a weapon fired at close range, before steering itself back into a cynical giggle, as if he always knew some extra secret that he was unwilling to share.

“You got one thing going for you, prof,” he said, grinning.

“What’s that?”

“This is what the world is now. Nothing takes place in secret really. Everyone wants to broadcast themselves. What was it? We’re all famous for fifteen minutes? Well, it’s true.”

Warhol,
Adrian thought. A sex offender quoting Warhol.

“One problem, though.”

Or was it Marshall McLuhan? Suddenly Adrian couldn’t remember. Maybe it was Woody Allen. He fought himself back to focusing on Wolfe.

“What’s that?”

“Get close, try to break down that old electronic barrier, and whoever it is that’s got her just might figure it out that someone is looking for her and then all of a sudden she’s likely to be damaged goods.”

Adrian took a sharp breath.

“And damaged goods…”

The sex offender continued to speak but Adrian noticed that his voice had changed, so that his lips moved with the words yet they sounded like his brother was speaking them. Adrian warned himself not to look confused but simply to listen.

“Well,” Wolfe said slowly, “I don’t know about you, but when something goes bad in my refrigerator I throw it out.”

31

Jennifer was perched on the bed, her eyes shut tight behind the blindfold, trying to picture her room at home. She had started to envision things remembered, detailing with draftsman’s precision every angle, every shape, and every color. Toys. Pictures. Books. Pillows. Posters. The desk was positioned just so, the colors of her bedspread were red, blue, green, and purple, all shaped in interlocking squares in a quilt. On a bureau there was a five-by-seven snapshot of her at a youth soccer game heading a ball. She took her time, piecing each element together; she did not want to forget even the smallest item. She luxuriated in each memory—the plot and characters of a book she read as a child; the Christmas morning when she had been given her first pair of earrings for her newly pierced ears. She slowly painted her past in her mind’s eye. It helped to remind her that she had been Number 4 for only a few days but for many years she had been Jennifer.

It was a constant fight.

Sometimes, when she awakened from dozing, it took an immense effort to recall anything from her past. What she could feel, smell, hear—everything that she had memorized from her prison room and what she knew was being captured by the camera—all circumscribed the immediacy of her situation. She was afraid there was no Jennifer yesterday. No Jennifer tomorrow. There was only Jennifer right that second. It would have been easier to be a lost sailor cast adrift in a winter sea. At least then, she thought, it would be obvious that she had to fight the currents and the waves and that if she couldn’t stay afloat she would drown.

Inwardly, she sobbed. Outwardly she kept herself calm.

She told herself,
I’m only sixteen. A high school student.
She knew she did not know much of the world. She hadn’t traveled to exotic places or seen unusual sights. She wasn’t a soldier or a spy or even a criminal—anyone who might have some experience that would help her understand her jail. This should have crippled her but, oddly, it didn’t.
I know some things,
she told herself.
I know how to fight back.
Even if this was a lie, she didn’t care.

Part of that approach required her to imagine everything about the life she had been a part of, all the way up to the moment the van had stopped and the man had leaned out toward her.

Next to the bureau there is a black metal floor lamp with a red shade. The rug is a multicolored throw that covers some dingy old tan and stained wall-to-wall shag. The worst stain is from where I spilled tomato soup, which I wasn’t supposed to take out of the kitchen but I did. She yelled at me. She called me irresponsible. I was. But still I argued with her. How many arguments were there? One a day? No. More. When I get home, she will hug me and tell me how she cried when I went missing and that will make me feel better. I miss her. I didn’t think I’d ever say that. I miss her. She has some gray now in her hair, just a few strands that she forgets to color, and I don’t know whether I should tell her. She could be beautiful. She should be beautiful. Will I ever be pretty? Maybe she’s crying now. Maybe Scott is there. I hate him. My father would have found me already, but he can’t. Is Scott even looking? Is anyone even looking? My father is looking for me, but he’s dead. I hate it. I was robbed. Cancer. I wish I could give cancer to the man and the woman. Mister Brown Fur knows. I would put him to bed beside me. He remembers what the room looked like. How are we going to get out of here?

Jennifer knew that the camera would catch a vision of anything she did. She knew that the man and the woman—she wasn’t certain which one scared her more—might be watching. But quietly, as if by being silent somehow she wouldn’t attract attention, she began to run her fingertips over the chain around her neck and the eyelet where it was attached to the wall.

One link. Two. She felt each. They were slick beneath her touch. She could picture them. They would be silver and shiny and they probably bought them in a pet store. The links weren’t pit bull or Doberman heavy and strong. But they were probably strong enough to hold her.

She touched the eyelet screwed into the wall. Plaster board, she guessed. Drywall.

Once, when she had a fight with her mother—she had stayed out past her curfew—she had thrown a paperweight at the wall. It had hit with a solid thud, and then dropped to the floor, leaving a wide hole. Her mother had to call a handyman to come fix it. Drywall isn’t strong. Maybe she could rip the eyelet out? She could feel her lips moving as she asked herself the question. The man would have thought of that.
I didn’t throw that paperweight like a girl,
Jennifer reminded herself.
My father taught me to throw a ball when I was little. He loved baseball. He gave me my Red Sox hat. He taught me the right way. Pull back hard. Arm crooked at the elbow. Shoulder locked. Drive through the throw. Fastball. Painting 95 on the black.

She smiled, just a little, stopping herself because she didn’t want the smile caught by the camera.

Maybe I can be a little pit bull,
she thought.

Jennifer ran her fingers over the leather collar around her neck.

She imagined the pet store conversation:
“And what sort of dog is it you want to chain up, ma’am?”

She pictured the woman standing at a counter.
You don’t know,
Jennifer thought.
You have no idea what kind of dog I can be. And what my bite is like.

She took her fingernail and started to scrape away at the collar. It felt like cheap leather. She could feel a small lock, the sort that someone would use to secure luggage. This was supposed to keep the collar in place. She scraped a little harder, just enough so that she could find the same spot again. Maybe, she thought, she could rub it into pieces.

She told herself there had to be steps to freedom. She tried to formulate a series of moves. First, she had to get loose. Then she had to get through the door.
Was it locked?
She had to get up out of the basement room.
Where are the stairs? They have to be close by.
She had to find a door to the outside. Then she would run. It made no difference what direction. Just get away. That was the easy part, she thought.
If I can just get free enough to run no one will catch me. I’m fast. On every field, in every game, I was the fastest. The cross-country coach wanted me to run for the high school, but I told him I wouldn’t. But I could beat all those other girls and most of the boys too. All I need is the chance.

Jennifer lowered her hands from the chain and collar and started to stroke her bear. She whispered to Mister Brown Fur, “Just one step at a time. We’ll make it. I promise.”

Her voice resounded in the room and she was surprised she had spoken out loud. For an instant she thought she had screamed it out. Then she imagined it was a whisper. It echoed around her, filling her ears with sound until a different noise penetrated her consciousness. Someone was at the door. She twitched, bending her head toward the noise.

She bit down on her lip. She had not heard a key in a lock. She had not heard a deadbolt open. She tried to remember the other times the door had opened. Had she heard something different? No, she was sure, it was just the sound of the door handle being turned.
What did that tell her?

Before she had even the millisecond necessary to answer her own question, she heard the man’s voice.

“Stand up. Remove your underwear.”

Michael and Linda understood that
Series #4
was not merely about sex, it was also about possession and control. The sexual component was critical and, they believed, the fulcrum on which the success of the show depended. Michael had spent hours studying every frame of the
Hostel
movies, which he thought had degenerated into bloodbaths that narrowed their audience down to teenagers who placed primary value on gore. But when the blood started spurting, the tension dissipated. Linda, for her part, considered those movies repulsive and instead had read, and then reread, virtually every book about Patty Hearst and the Symbionese Liberation Army she could lay hands on. What fascinated her was the way that the heiress had been altered psychologically into Tania, the erstwhile revolutionary. While they didn’t have any need for Number 4 to numbly take up an unloaded weapon and join in some half-baked bank robbery and feed-the-people revolutionary scheme, what Linda found fascinating was the way that Hearst had been driven into giving up her own identity. Isolation. Constant threat. Physical abuse. Sexual pressure. Each part had chipped away at who Patty Hearst had been and turned her into the blankest of pages that her captors had then exploited. These were elements she knew could be manipulated into their show. She simply assumed that her fascination was easily the same for viewers around the world.

Of course, the more she felt compelled in this way, the crueler she became. She wanted to both possess Number 4 and hurt her. Sometimes, when Michael was asleep, she would crawl from the bed, wrap a blanket around her naked form, and go to the monitors and watch. The quickening in her heart was like those of the anonymous people watching. It was a different kind of intimacy. She would be aroused in a way that her love-making with Michael couldn’t duplicate. Her breath would come in short bursts. She had a fierce desire to touch herself, made even more electric by her refusal to do this.