Gone Tomorrow

She laid the mass on the guy’s chest, quite gently.

Then she slid off the rock and stepped out of the frame.

The camera’s unblinking eye stared on.

The taxi driver looked down in horror.

Lila Hoth said, ‘Now it’s just a matter of time. The cut doesn’t kill them. We don’t sever any important vessels. The bleeding stops quite fast. It’s about pain and shock and infection. The strong ones resist all three. They die of hypothermia, we think. Their core temperature is compromised, obviously. It depends on the weather. Our record is eighteen hours. People say they’ve seen two full days, but I don’t believe them.’

‘You’re crazy, you know that?’

‘That’s what Peter Molina said.’

‘He saw this?’

‘He’s on it. Keep watching. Fast forward, if you like. Without the sound it’s not so much fun anyway.’

I checked all around the room again. Three people, working hard. I put the fat hand on the fast forward button and clicked. The picture leapt into fast motion. The taxi driver’s head moved back and forth through a tiny jerky arc.

Lila Roth said, ‘Normally we don’t do this one at a time. It’s better to have a sequence. The second guy waits until the first guy dies, and so on. It builds up the dread. You should see them, just willing the previous guy to live a minute longer. But eventually they die, and the spotlight moves on. That’s when they have heart attacks. You know, if they’re going to. If they’re susceptible. But we can’t always arrange a live sequence. That’s why we use the video now, for an approximation.’

I wanted to tell her she was crazy again, but I didn’t, because she would have told me about Peter Molina again.

‘Keep watching,’ she said.

The picture spooled onward. The taxi driver’s arms and legs twitched. Strange brittle movements, at double speed. His head rolled left and right.

Lila Hoth said, ‘Peter Molina saw all of this. He was willing the guy to hold on. Which was strange, because of course the guy died months ago. But that’s the effect. Like I told you, the video is a fair equivalent.’

‘You’re sick,’ I said. ‘You’re also dead. You know that? Like you just stepped out in the road. The truck hasn’t hit you yet, but it’s going to.’

‘Are you the truck?’

‘You bet your ass.’

‘I’m glad. Keep watching.’

I clicked the fast forward button again and again, and the picture sped up to four times normal speed, then eight, then sixteen, then thirty-two. Time rushed by. An hour. Ninety minutes. Then the image went perfectly still. The taxi driver stopped moving. He lay completely inert for a long time and then Lila Hoth rushed into the frame. I hit the play button to get back to normal speed. Lila bent near the guy’s head and felt for a pulse. Then she raised her head and smiled a happy smile.

Straight at the camera.

Straight at me.

On the phone she asked, ‘Is it over yet?’

I said, ‘Yes.’

‘A disappointment. He didn’t last long. He was sick. He had parasites. Worms. We could see them writhing in his guts the whole time. It was disgusting. I guess they died too. Parasites die if their host dies.’

‘Like you’re going to die.’

‘We’re all going to die, Reacher. The only questions are when and how.’

Behind me one of the business executives got up and headed for the door. I turned in my chair and tried to keep my body between him and the screen. I don’t think I succeeded. He looked at me strangely and left the room.

Or maybe he had heard my end of the phone conversation.

‘Keep watching,’ Lila said, in my ear.

I hit fast forward again. The taxi driver lay dead near Kabul for a spell and then the picture shut down and was replaced by a flurry of video noise. Then it opened up on a new scene. I hit play. Normal speed. An interior. Same kind of harsh light. Impossible to say whether it was night or day. Impossible to say where it was. A basement, maybe. Floor and walls seemed to be painted white. There was a broad stone slab, like a table. Smaller than the Afghan rock. Rectangular, manufactured for a purpose. Part of an old kitchen, possibly.

A huge young man was tied to the slab.

He was maybe half my age and twenty per cent bigger all around.

He’s three hundred pounds of muscle, Jacob Mark had said. He’s going to the NFL.

Lila Hoth asked, ‘Do you see him yet?’

‘I see him.’

He was naked. Very white under the lights. Different in every way from the Kabul taxi driver. Pale skin, tousled fair hair. No beard. But he was moving just the same. His head was jerking back and forth and he was screaming words. No! and Please! are recognizable in any language. And this was English. I could lip-read quite easily. I could even sense the tone. Disbelief, mainly. The kind of tone a person uses when what was assumed to be an empty threat or even a cruel joke turns out to have been deadly serious.

I said, ‘I’m not going to watch this.’

Lila Hoth said, ‘You should. Or you’ll never be sure. Maybe we let him go.’

‘When was this?’

‘We set a deadline and we kept it.’

I didn’t reply.

‘Watch it.’

‘No.’