Forty Words for Sorrow

When she got home, she remained in her car with the motor running, leaning her head on the steering wheel. She tried not to identify the feelings that flowed inside her. Delorme had come across a lot of larcenous men in her six years with Special. And in that time she had come across motivations that rivaled the northern woods in their richness and variety. Some men steal for greed. Those are simple, and easy to nail. Then there are other men, more complex, who steal out of compulsion. Still others steal out of fear: Delorme thought those were by far the most common: the middle-aged manager who sees the specter of a penny-pinching retirement. Delorme didn't think Cardinal could be any of these. And so she wasn't dwelling on that fancy cabin cruiser, or even that Florida condo. The objects that shone clearest in her mind were the letters from Yale. She could feel the expensive weave of the stationery in her hand, the embossed seal, the enormous cost of an Ivy League education. Some men, she was realizing, might steal for love.

"John Cardinal," she said aloud. "You are such a stupid fool."

29

ERIC had brought him the soup- it was all they'd been feeding him for the past two days, despite his protests- and sat at the end of the bed to make sure he finished it. He didn't say a word, just sat and stared at Keith like a crow. Then he'd smiled that ferrety smile of his, as if they shared some secret, and left the room.

Keith went straight to the bathroom and made himself throw up. He was not bothered by nausea anymore, but he was sure they were drugging him with something that made him sleep all the time. He wanted his wits about him, now; he wanted to know what was going on.

Afterward, exhausted and hollow, he sat on the edge of the bed, listening to their voices upstairs, droning on and on. They were directly overhead, but he couldn't make out any distinct words, just the voices.

Throwing up had made his eyes water. He wiped them on the corner of the sheet, and now with his cleared vision, he saw that there was a new addition to the furniture in the room. In the corner, where the camera and tripod had once stood, was a small TV and a VCR. Christ, how long were they expecting him to stay down here? It was clothes he wanted, not a bloody television.

But his clothes were not on the back of the chair. Not under the bed. Not hanging in the bathroom. And his duffel bag was missing, too.

He tried the door, but it was locked from the other side. For the first time, a thread of fear flowed into his bloodstream. He wrapped himself in a blanket and sat for a long time, thinking. At some point, he wasn't sure when, he heard Eric and Edie go out, heard the car starting up in the drive.

His head was still not clear, but he tried to assess how much trouble he was in. The door was locked, his clothes were gone- definitely bad signs, but he simply could not assess how bad. Eric and Edie just didn't seem all that scary. Worst case, he thought, what's my worst case: They think I'm rich and they're going to hold me for ransom.

He came to a decision. Next time they opened that door he'd be out in a flash, no hesitation. I may be wrong, they may be harmless, but it doesn't matter. I'm out of here.

There was a buzzing sound from overhead. He looked up just as the single bulb flickered and burned out. The room went dark. Slats of daylight, thin and pale, framed the boarded-up window.

Darkness had never frightened Keith London before, but it did now. He switched on the television. In such utter gloom, even this cold harsh glow was welcome. There was no aerial, no cable; the reception was hopeless. On one channel the ghost of a newscaster stared earnestly out at him, but no voice penetrated the static.

Keith pushed the eject button on the VCR, and a tape popped out. Handwritten on the label were the words, Life of the Party. Eric's film, he remembered, either that or home movies. He pushed the tape back in and pressed play.

The scene was badly lit, atrociously lit, in fact. There was a hard circle of light in the center of the screen, and around this, blackness. A boy was sitting in the patch of light, a skinny kid with long hair. He didn't look any too swift, sipping from a beer and grinning a stupid grin. He belched a couple of times, goofing off for the camera.

Then a woman entered the scene- Edie- and sat beside him. Here we go, Keith said to himself. Amateur porn time. God, they grow them kinky up here in the North.

The lighting did nothing to flatter Edie's complexion. Her skin gave off a dull glare as she reached over, felt between the boy's legs, and rubbed at him. The boy laughed, looking nervous and embarrassed. "You guys are too much," he said.

Music was switched on in the background, a boom box, it sounded like, Pearl Jam distorted by cheap speakers. Edie kept rubbing the boy's crotch mechanically. He opened his fly and she reached inside.