What Comes Next (43 page)

“I’m trying to help her face facts,” he said. “It’s been days. Days and days and days. Hours go by, we sit in here like we’re waiting for the phone to ring and it will be Jennifer saying, ‘Hey can you pick me up at the bus stop?’ But that call sure as hell doesn’t come. We’ve heard nothing. It’s like the earth swallowed up Jennifer.”

Scott leaned back and waved his hand in the air. “It’s a mausoleum in here. Mary can’t just sit in the dark for the rest of her life waiting.”

Terri thought that was exactly what Mary should be doing. Everyone always wants people to be realistic until it’s their own child involved. Then there is no reality. There is only doing what you can.

And that will never end, she realized.

She did not think that talking about
facing facts
made any sense. But she realized that she was on the wrong side of the equation being written in the Riggins household. She took a cup of coffee from Mary Riggins’s hand and watched as she sat across from her.
She will age fast now,
Terri thought.
Every word I speak will just add years to her heart. She will be forty when I start and a hundred when I finish.

“I wish I had good news,” she said quietly.

35

The siren sound reached a terrifying crescendo and Jennifer imagined that it was directly outside her cell. Suddenly, she could hear the deep
thud!
of several car doors slamming shut, followed rapidly by a machine gun—like pounding on a distant door. She could not actually hear someone calling out “Police! Open up!” but her imagination filled this in, especially when she heard hurried footsteps beating a drum cadence across an upstairs floor.

She stayed still, frozen, not precisely because that was what she had been told to do, but more because she was overwhelmed by images forming somewhere in the darkness directly in front of her.

The word
rescue
vaguely latched on to her heart.

Jennifer gasped, a sudden burst from within that became a sob. Hope. Possibility. Relief. All these things, and many more, flooded unchecked through her, a river current of excitement.

She knew the camera was watching her, and if the camera was capturing every movement she made, she knew also that it was coming up on a screen somewhere. But, for the first time, there was now someone else who might see her. Someone different from the man and the woman. Not someone anonymous and disembodied. Someone who might be on her side.
No,
she thought,
someone who is absolutely on my side.

Jennifer turned slightly in the direction of the cell door. She bent forward, listening.

She tried to hear voices but there was nothing but silence. She told herself that this was good.

In her mind’s eye, Jennifer pictured what was happening.

They had to open the front door. You can’t turn down the cops when they knock. There was an exchange: “Are you… ?” and “We have reason to believe that you’re holding a young woman here. Jennifer Riggins. Do you know her?” The man and the woman will say no, but they won’t be able to get the cops to leave because the cops won’t believe them. The cops will be tough. No nonsense. They won’t listen to lies. They will force their way in and now they’re all standing in some upstairs room. The police are wary, asking questions. Polite but forceful. They know I’m here, or maybe they just know I’m close by, but they don’t know where yet. It’s only a matter of time, Mister Brown Fur. They will be here any second. The man is trying to make excuses. The woman is trying to convince the cops that there’s nothing wrong, but the police know better. The man and the woman—now they’re getting scared. They know it’s all over for them. The cops will pull out their guns. The man and the woman will try to run but they’re surrounded. No place for them to go. Any second now, the cops will bring out their handcuffs. I’ve seen it in a hundred movies and a hundred television shows. The cops will force the man and the woman to the floor and slap on the cuffs. Maybe the woman will start crying and the man will be cursing, “fuck you fuck you…” but the cops won’t care. Not at all. They’ve heard it all before a million times. One of them will be saying “You have the right to remain silent” while the others start to spread out, looking for us, Mister Brown Fur. Keep listening, we will hear them any second now. The door is going to open and someone will say “Jesus Christ!” or something like that, and then they will help us. They will break the chain around my neck. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?” They’ll tear off the blindfold. Someone will shout, “We need an ambulance!” and another will be saying, “Take it easy, now. Can you move? Tell us what they did to you.” And I’ll tell them, Mister Brown Fur. I’ll tell them everything. You can help me. And then, before we know it, they’ll help me into my clothes and the place will be crawling with paramedics and other cops. And I’ll be right in the middle. Someone will hand me a cellphone and it will be Mom on the other end. She will be crying she’s so happy and maybe this time I’ll forgive her a little bit, because I really want to go home, Mister Brown Fur. I just want to go home. Maybe because of all this we can start everything all over. No Scott. Maybe a new school, with new kids that aren’t such bastards and everything will be different from now on. It will be like it was when Dad was still alive, only he won’t be there, but I’ll be able to feel him again. I know he’s the one that helped them find me, even though he’s dead. It was like he told them where to look, and they came looking and here we are. And then, Mister Brown Fur, the cops will take us out. It will be night and there will be cameras flashing and reporters yelling questions, but I won’t say anything, because I’m going home. You and I, together. They’ll put us in the back of a squad car and the siren will start up and some trooper will say, “You’re one lucky little lady, Jennifer. We got there just in time. So you ready to go home now?” And I’ll say, “Yes. Please.” And in a week or two, maybe, someone from
60 Minutes
or CNN will call up and say we’re going to pay you a million dollars just to hear your story, Jennifer, and then, Mister Brown Fur, we can tell them what it was like. We will be famous and rich and everything will be different from now on.

Any second now.

She listened carefully, waiting for a piece of the fantasy to make a noise and confirm for her what she knew was taking place just beyond her reach.

But there were no sounds.

The only thing she could hear was her own breathing, fast, raspy.

Jennifer knew that they had told her to be quiet. She knew they were capable of doing almost anything. There were rules she couldn’t break. Obedience was everything.

But this was her chance. She just wasn’t certain how to take it.

Each silent second was sharp, prickly. She could feel herself shuddering, as familiar muscle spasms wracked her body. Holding herself still was nearly impossible. It was as if every different nerve ending, every separate organ within her, every pulse of blood through her veins had a different demand and a separate agenda. She thought she was being spun around, and it felt like the first moment on a roller coaster, when the tracks drop down and the car suddenly plunges headlong into noise and speed.

Jennifer waited. It was agony.

She felt as if she was inches from safety.

She craned her head, trying to hear something that would tell her what was happening. But silence crippled her.

And then she thought:
It’s taking too long, Mister Brown Fur, it’s taking too long!

Panicky, she thought of all the things she might do. She could start to shout,
I’m here!
Or maybe she could rattle her chains. She could toss the bed over or kick over the toilet. Something so that whoever it was upstairs would stop and listen and know she was close by.

Do something! Anything! So they don’t leave!

She could stand it no longer and she swung her legs over the edge of the bed, but it was as if they were weak, without any strength. She willed herself up. Everything was about to happen—she knew she needed to cry for help, make a thunderous noise, a shriek, a scream, anything that might bring help to her side.

Jennifer’s mouth opened and she gathered herself.

And then, as swiftly, she stopped.

They will hurt me.

No. The police will hear you. They will save you.

If the cops don’t come they will kill me.

Her breath was choking in her chest. She felt as if she was being crushed.

They will kill me anyway.

No.

I’m valuable. I’m important. I mean something. I’m Number 4. They need Number 4.

She was pinned between possibilities. Everything scared her.

Jennifer knew that she had to save herself. But behind the blindfold it was as if she could see two roads, each perilously close to a cliff, and she couldn’t tell which was safe, which was right, and she knew that whichever she chose there would be no turning back, the path would disappear behind her. She could feel hot tears running down her cheeks. She wanted desperately to hear something that would tell her which road to take, the silence torturing her every bit as much as anything the man and the woman had done to her.

Jennifer thought:
I’m going to die. One way or the other, I’m going to die.

Nothing made sense. Nothing was clear. There was no way to tell with any certainty what was right or what was wrong. She squeezed Mister Brown Fur tightly.

And then, as if it were someone else’s hand pushing hers insistently, she lifted the edge of her blindfold.

“Don’t do it?” the filmmaker shouted.

“Yes! Yes! Do it?” his wife, the performance artist, yelled.

The two of them were riveted in front of the flat-screen television mounted on the exposed brick wall of their trendy So Ho loft. The filmmaker was a thin, wiry man in his late thirties, who made a nice living by specializing in documentary films about third world poverty funded by a variety of NGOs. His statuesque wife—they had recently been married by a gay friend of theirs who had left the priesthood in frustration and who probably had zero legal right to perform a wedding—was equally thin, with a cascading Medusa-like tangle of curled black hair. She was a frequent performer at nightclubs and on small stages that were not the sort to be listed in
The New Yorker,
which gave her some edgy credibility, although she secretly would have preferred to slide into the mainstream, where there was more money and greater attention.

“She’s got to fight her way free!” the wife said excitedly.

Her husband shook his head. “She has to outthink them. It’s like facing down a man with a gun—” he started but was rapidly interrupted.

“She’s just a kid. Outthink them? Forget it”

This was the couple’s second subscription to Whatcomesnext.com. They considered the money they paid to join the network to be work-related and therefore tax-deductible. Cutting-edge film, nouveau acting. Often, after watching Number 4, they had deep, meaningful conversations about what they had seen, and its relevance to the modem world of art. They both saw Whatcomesnext as an extension of Warhol’s world and his Factory, which had been mocked decades earlier but which had grown over the years in prominence among critics and thinkers they followed. Number 4 clearly fascinated both of them, but they thrust their interest into an intellectual realm—not wanting to acknowledge the criminal or voyeuristic nature of their participation. They kept their subscription private from their friends, although each, at many a dinner party where the discussion turned to cinema techniques and the rise of the Internet as a place where film and art collided, had been tempted to blurt out their attraction to Number 4 and what she meant to them. But they did not do this, although they both believed that many of the people at the dinners probably subscribed as well. It was, after all, how they first heard of the website.

But as they had watched Number 4 over the days and nights of her captivity each had settled into a different relationship with her. The filmmaker had been protective in his responses, worried about what was going to happen to her, cautious, not wanting her to do anything that might put her in jeopardy or rock any boat unnecessarily; his wife, in contrast, wanted Number 4 to push things to their limits. She wanted Number 4 to take every chance. She wanted Number 4 to stand up to the man and woman and to fight back. She urged rebellion, while he spoke of being careful and obedient.

Each believed that what they shouted at the screen day and night was the only possible way for Number 4 to survive.

They had argued frequently about this. Every argument drove them deeper into the narrative surrounding Number 4. Each wanted his or her approach to be justified. The wife had crowed with success when Number 4 had first peeked beneath her blindfold, orienting herself to the cell and the main camera. The filmmaker had leaped up, pumping his fist with excitement when Number 4 had remained motionless, despite the man’s lurking threats.

The filmmaker would say, “That’s really the only way she can control anything. She has to be a cipher.”

The performance artist would reply, “She needs to create her own story. She needs to take charge of every little thing she can. That’s the only way for her to remember who she is and make certain that the man and the woman see her as a person and not as an item.”

“That will never happen,” the husband replied. This—like all the other exchanges—sounded like the start of a fight. But invariably it ended with him stroking his wife’s leg and her snuggling closer to him. Fascination as foreplay.

And now, in their loft, a fine dinner with an expensive bottle of white wine behind them, they watched, half undressed, caught by drama in the few moments before heading to bed.

“This is her chance, goddammit!” the wife nearly shouted. “Seize the moment, Number Four! Own it!”