“Dylan, Young, Springsteen. Dylan, Young, Springsteen…”
The mantra gave me a warm feeling-it seemed to bring me closer to myself.
Then the words were changed by some opaque part of my brain.
“Pop, Hell, Rotten, Strummer. Pop, Hell, Rotten, Strummer…”
I didn’t know what the words referred to, but I knew the person that I once was, the character that I’d lost, had paid attention to them. I was in the dark about my past, but there were still a few beacons lighting the way back.
At some point, the nurse roused me with a tray with the kind of food I hadn’t seen for what seemed like months-fresh bread, bacon, eggs, fruit, orange juice, coffee. I ate and drank ravenously. It was hard to fend off real sleep after that, but I repeated my mantra again to stay surreptitiously awake.
Eventually-I had no idea how much time had passed-my patience was rewarded. I heard two pairs of footsteps approaching. The doctor and nurse were being very careful, keeping their voices low, but I heard one of the man’s sentences clearly enough.
“Advise control center that L24 will be ready for coffining and psych-process closure tomorrow.”
I took it that I was L24. The designation meant nothing to me and I had the distinct feeling I’d never heard it before. L24? It sounded like I was a machine rather than a human being. Screw that.
Then I started wondering about the other things the doctor had mentioned-control center, coffining, psych-process closure. All three of the terms were alarming. What was the center controlling? And what was the psych-process that sounded like it was almost completed? Worst, what was coffining? Surely they weren’t going to kill me. I tried to convince myself that if the people who were holding me had wanted that, they could have done it easily when I’d been comatose. But I wasn’t going to take the chance. No way was I undergoing coffining.
I didn’t have many options, so I quickly settled on a plan of action. I opened my eyes wide and started jerking my bound limbs as if I was having a seizure. I gasped for breath and thrashed my head around to add to the effect. All of that got the nurse’s attention and she ran over to my bed.
I couldn’t tell what the monitors were showing her, so I let out some screams, too. I didn’t make them too loud in case that attracted other staff. But the nurse was either cautious by nature or the place was run with iron discipline. I caught a glimpse of her stabbing buttons on her cell phone. To my relief, she seemed unable to get through. She left a message, saying that L24 was convulsing and that the person she was trying to contact, presumably the doctor, should come immediately. I made even more of an effort with my act, thrusting my midriff into the air.
The nurse seemed to get the subliminal message. I felt her fingers on my wrists, then they were freed. Would she do the same with my legs? I sneaked a look and saw her trying to call the doctor again. I had to make my move. I sat up and grabbed her by the left arm, slapping the phone from her other hand.
“Untie my ankles,” I ordered, leaning forward and transferring my grip to her waist. She gasped as I dug my fingers into her flesh. There was a pause as she struggled with the strap, then I was free. I took hold of her arms again.
“Where are we?” I demanded. “What have you been doing to me?”
The young woman’s eyes bulged as I squeezed her forearms hard.
“What’s my name?”
She shook her head, her lips pursed. She was obviously trying to follow a procedure that she’d learned, but her wide eyes showed how scared she was.
“Tell me,” I hissed, “or I’ll break your arms.”
“Please,” she begged, “I can’t. They’ll…they’ll kill me.”
I could tell she wasn’t going to talk. Without thinking about it, I swung my left arm. My fist connected with her lower jaw and she dropped like a stone. I got up and checked that she was breathing, then tied her to the bed and stamped on her cell phone. I knew the doctor might arrive any second, so I went to a cupboard against the wall. I found a gray uniform jacket and trousers, plus a pair of highly polished black army boots. The shoulders of the jacket bore red badges with the letters NANR in black. I pulled everything on as quickly as I could and headed for the door. On the way, I caught sight of the computer screen on the desk. I wondered if my details were visible and veered that way, but before I got there I heard footsteps outside. I ran to the door, the muscles in my legs tightening, and got there just before the doctor rushed in. I brought the edge of my hand down on the back of his neck and he joined the nurse on the floor. I considered going back to check the screen but decided it was more important to get moving.
I went out, surprised by my apparently instinctive fighting skills. I found myself at the end of a long corridor. Before I got more than five yards, I heard voices behind a closed door and ducked into an alcove. That was the right move. Two men in gray uniforms like the one I was wearing came into the passage and walked past the spot I’d been a few seconds earlier. They were wearing berets adorned with the NANR badge, making me wonder what the letters might mean.
I was about to go out into the corridor when I heard raised voices and a rush of feet moving towards the room where I’d been confined. Shit. Presumably someone was wondering why the doctor and nurse weren’t responding. I decided to make use of the staircase at the end of the alcove. It only went one way-down.
At the bottom, a short corridor led to an open door. I inched towards it and edged my head round the frame. Two men, again in gray uniforms, were sitting at an electronic control board, their eyes fixed on the scene that was being played out in the studio beyond. The men were separated from the action by a clear glass window. I followed the direction of their gaze, and froze. A man and a woman, both naked, were being filmed. What really made my heart pound was that the man had been tied to a wooden post, facing outwards. I had a flash of having been in a similar position and heard the crash of rifles. I remembered-the bastards had pretended to execute me by firing squad.
That wasn’t what was happening to this man. He was being savagely whipped, his face and chest already crisscrossed by bloody stripes. The woman turned towards the cameras, her lips set in a tight smile. She held the position and I realized she was waiting for something. Then one of the uniformed guys leaned forward to a microphone and said words which boomed out through speakers.
“All right, that’s enough. Kill him.”
I could hardly believe what I’d heard, but the order was no joke. The woman in the studio had picked up a long knife with a wickedly curved blade.
It was time I made my entrance.
Five
The midafternoon sun was hardly strong enough to cut through the clouds over Iowa and a light drizzle was falling. Twenty miles east of Des Moines, Richard Bonhoff steered his ten-year-old Chevrolet pickup onto Interstate 80 and floored the gas pedal. He’d left the farm an hour earlier after a screaming argument with Melissa. Only now did it strike him that he’d failed to tell her where he was going. It was better she didn’t know.
He passed a Winnebago with difficulty and went over to the outside lane. The pickup’s engine had been giving him trouble for months. Chances were it would never get him to Washington, D.C., and then what would he do? Sit on the grass and weep, probably.
That had been the starting point of his disagreement with his wife. Melissa had come in tired from the yard and found him at the kitchen table with his head in his hands. She’d immediately told him how pathetic that was. Why couldn’t he be a man and get on with his work? Lord knows there was enough of it to do now there were only the two of them. Richard hadn’t replied. Then she’d said that he should stop moping over the twins’ decision to leave home. Randy and Gwen were twenty-one years old. They were grown-ups, entitled to make their own decisions about their future.