For all that, it was slow going. The guy in the hall — his last best subject! — could leave. He rocked back and forth. Finally he ran out of the bathroom feeling vaguely nauseated for his efforts and looked at the spot where the man had been. Goddamn it. Only, the man had not actually left but retreated to a corner where he now sat upright, crying into his arms, which were folded across his legs, bent at the knee.
Bruce had worked with subjects in the field for years. He was not shy or awkward around strangers, even in the weirdest of circumstances. But this guy? He seemed unstoppable in the effluence of his grief, so that Bruce did not know what to say and was even a little afraid to say anything.
He tapped him on the shoulder. Nudged him in the leg. Said, “We need to get out of here, okay?”
Norman covered his ears. “Go away. Leave me alone. I want to die.”
Bruce took a step back. “Okay, buddy. Let’s get you out of here and then you can die. Sound good?” He wanted to stand him up so he could glean something of the man’s role. A guard? The janitor? Bruce reached for his elbow.
Norman shook him off and looked up. His face was all bloat and jowl. “I was crying,” he said.
“I can see that. But we’re on a bit of a deadline. Know what I’m saying? You can cry after.”
There was literature on the subject of how to deprogram a cult member, and much lore about a desperado named Black Lightning who went around kidnapping cultists for the purpose of deprogramming them, and about how this Black Lightning collapsed moral boundaries and made nominal the difference between free and captive thought, all of which material might have served Bruce well if he’d read any of it and not just printed a bibliography, which he barely skimmed, anyway.
Norman put on his glasses. “What’s the point?” he said. “They’re going to put me away for the rest of my life.”
The fireworks in Bruce’s heart were so boisterous, he could not believe this guy was not running for cover. The rest of his life! He must be important.
“I wasn’t suggesting we waltz out the front door,” Bruce said, all casual, not wanting to betray the lusty and viselike grip he was prepared to exert on this man if he didn’t play along.
Norman seemed to perk up a little. “There’s the tunnels,” he said.
Good, good. The tunnels. They’d be found, of course, but not before Bruce was able to eke from their time together a little trust and the golden promise of exclusive rights and access.
“After you,” Bruce said. And then, “I’m Bruce, by the way. And if you’re wondering why I don’t just walk out of here without you, it’s because—” Though here he stopped. Norman was not listening, and this was fine. At least he’d gotten his name. Norman Sugg, chief of staff for Thurlow Dan, VP, second in command — jackpot.
They went to the basement, and as Norman was keying in a pass code, he said, “I guess I could live down here indefinitely. That wouldn’t be so bad.” He leaned his forehead into the metal of the door, which was more slab than door, and started to cry again, only without the purposed and cleansing intensity of before.
Bruce was beginning to see something of his wife in this man and was determined not to make the same mistakes. And so: whatever instinct tells you to say, say the opposite.
“Why don’t we just take a break here for a second. It might help if you talked about it.”
“Don’t make fun of me. I’ve been through enough.”
“I’m not making fun of you. What do you mean?”
Norman finished with the pass code — it was an incredibly long sequence; who could remember a sequence that long? — and waited for the door to open with obvious impatience because, where five seconds ago he was ready to languish and die, now he was energized with disdain for Bruce Bollinger.
“Here,” Norman said, and he gave Bruce a hard hat with a light and reflector strips. “I need for you to stay safe.”
Bruce nodded. Their dynamic seemed to redefine itself at a clip. It was hard to keep up. Maybe Norman thought he’d win points for good governance of the kidnapped? Bruce was running out of time. He imagined SWAT fanned out in the tunnels and waiting for them at every turn. He imagined Norman giving him the slip. He certainly seemed to know the tunnels well, never stopping at the forks or Ts. If only Bruce were half as confident. There were so many inroads into a man’s trust. Be innocent, friendly, unafraid, curious. Ask about his family. His history with the Helix. Keep it locaclass="underline" So, what are your dinner plans? Ask questions that imply faith in the subject’s good heart. He was still debating the right way in when they heard footsteps, or at least the suck-squish of feet in the mulch that passed for flooring in this place.
Bruce spun around to rake his light across the walls, looking for where to hide. Norman was unbothered. Bruce nipped his sleeve and tried to pull him from the center of the gangway. The suck-squish got closer, and with it the sound of two men who were, whatever they were, not SWAT. Bruce let out a whistle that died in fear because there were actually worse people to encounter in a tunnel than SWAT. The men were discussing oil revenue stymied by the Iraq war and laughing at this nonsense. They’d never been so rich.
Oh, right, naturally: The tunnels were witness to oil magnates in bathrobes and flip-flops.
Bruce could hear them chuckling well past seeing their lights retire. “Do I even want to know?” he said.
“You’ll catch on,” Norman said. And with that, they reached a door. A door back to the world where everyone wanted what Bruce had.
“No, wait,” he said, and he slapped Norman’s hand away from the intercom button and, for good measure, put himself in the way of the button, which had assumed for him the ruinous potential of the Red Button.
“Oh good,” Norman said, “I deserve this,” and he upturned his face and closed his eyes, waiting, it seemed, to be struck. So there it was. Strike a man and you own that man.
“Maybe I can level with you,” Bruce said. “Maybe that’s the best way to go here.”
Norman narrowed his eyes and pushed Bruce out of the way with a single have-at-him. This man was incredible. Good-bye sheep, hello wolf. The door swung open just long enough for Bruce to pick himself off the floor and dive in. He nearly lost a foot in the jamb as it shut behind him with what sounded like the wheeze of an air lock. If he had been suddenly launched into space, he would not have been surprised. Already he felt the atmosphere of his grip on the world becoming less dense. He could hear Norman’s feet slapping the tile floor, which suggested they’d moved from the public arteries to something financed.
“Wait up,” he yelled, and he plunged down the hallway. At the other end were two doors, they looked like barn doors, and through the slits of their mismatch flared a light that was, even in slits, radiant. Seen from the back, Norman looked like a boxer headed into the ring. Bruce caught up with him, the doors parted, and only then did he realize he’d been subject to white noise that had grown into a din that was now the symphony of a casino packed with joy.
Oh God, he loved a casino. He’d sworn off the casinos and replaced their void with drink, but the swap had always felt short term. Unwise, too. Drink was less costly but also less lucrative, which was why, incidentally, the bank loan for Trial by Liar had failed him and why if he’d just done the prudent thing and continued to bet his way to freedom, etc.
He took a deep breath. An underground casino. Amazing. These days, to get to a decent casino you had to travel far, and often onto the Indian reservations, which were dry counties and annoying for it. Who wanted to poker through the night with Sprite and maraschino cherries?