Potboiler

The driver did not answer. She—it was a she—unlocked Pfefferkorn’s cellmate. Though Pfefferkorn was still half blind, he was able to detect a familiarity in her face.

“What’s happening,” he said.

“Relax,” Pfefferkorn’s cellmate said, rubbing his wrists. He no longer had a gangbanger accent. He got out of the van. The door closed. Pfefferkorn heard them talking. The gang member was complaining about being itchy. The driver murmured a reply and the two of them laughed. Pfefferkorn cried for help, his voice bouncing around the inside of the van. He jerked helplessly at his chains.

“You’re going to hurt yourself,” the driver said, opening the back door. The gang member was behind her, clutching something sharp and glinting.

Pfefferkorn slid away from them in terror.

“Take it easy,” the gang member said. His jail uniform was gone and his entire mien had changed. The driver was also out of uniform. With their youthful freshness, they could have been students of his. Then Pfefferkorn saw: they were students of his. The young man was Benjamin, author of the pretentious short story about getting old. Pfefferkorn didn’t remember him having so many tattoos. Then again, Pfefferkorn didn’t remember him being a gang member at all, so perhaps his memory was not to be trusted. The driver was Gretchen, she of the robots. She took the syringe from Benjamin, who cracked his knuckles and got ready to pounce.

Pfefferkorn pressed himself back into the unforgiving wall. “No.”

Benjamin tackled him and pinned his arms. Pfefferkorn fought. He had no chance.

“I have a family,” Pfefferkorn said.

“Not anymore,” Gretchen said.

The needle sank into his thigh.

57.

He was in a motel room. He knew this upon opening his eyes, before he had moved. The moldy air, the cottage-cheese ceiling, the line of gray light crossing it: these were proof enough. He rose up on his elbows. For a motel room, it was below average. The television set was bolted crookedly to the dresser. The carpet was mangy. The bedspread was a rough synthetic fabric printed with pink hibiscus blossoms as big as hubcaps. He was naked. The thought of that fabric against his skin gave him the willies. He leapt to his feet and was hit with a wave of nausea. He staggered to the wall and leaned against it, taking deep breaths until he could stand on his own.

He stepped to the window and drew back the curtain a few inches. His room was on the second floor, overlooking a parking lot. A search turned up neither telephone nor clock. The dresser drawers were empty, the walls bare. The nightstand contained a Gideon Bible. The television’s power cord had been snipped, leaving a quarter-inch stub. He checked the closet. It was without so much as a hanger. Another wave of nausea sent him running for the bathroom. He fell to his knees and vomited up a caustic orange stream. He sat back, hugging himself and shuckling, his body damp and quivering.

The toilet rang.

Pfefferkorn opened his eyes.

The ringtone was an irritating and ubiquitous thirteen-note ditty. Coming from within the toilet tank, it assumed an echoey, sinister quality.

I must wake up, he thought. I must stop this nightmare.

Everything continued to exist.

Wake up, he thought.

The toilet rang and rang.

He pinched himself. It hurt.

The ringing stopped.

“There,” he said. He felt that he had attained a small victory.

The toilet once again began to ring.

58.

A phone had been duct-taped to the underside of the tank lid. He peeled it free. The caller ID said WOULDN’T YOU LIKE TO KNOW. He was afraid to answer but more afraid not to.

“Hello,” he said.

“Sorry it had to be this way,” a man’s voice said. “I’m sure you can understand.”

Understand what? He didn’t understand anything.

“Who are you?” he yelled. “What is this?”

“It’s not safe to talk over the phone. You need to get moving.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“You will if you want to live.”

“Goddammit,” Pfefferkorn said, “don’t you threaten me.”

“It’s not a threat. If we wanted to do something to you, we would have done it already.”

“That’s supposed to make me feel better?”

“It’s not about your feelings,” the man said. “It’s much bigger than that.”

“What is?”

“You’ll know soon enough. Now get moving.”

“I don’t have any clothes.”

“Look up.”

Pfefferkorn looked up. The bathroom ceiling consisted of foam tiles two feet square.

“You’ll find what you need in there.”

Pfefferkorn climbed onto the toilet and slid aside a ceiling tile. A plastic shopping bag fell out, hitting him in the face. He found brand-new khakis wrapped around a pair of white running shoes. One shoe held balled white gym socks, the other a pair of white briefs. Last, there was a black polo shirt. He held it up. It hung to his knees.

He heard the man talking and picked up the phone.

“—win any best-dressed awards, but it’ll do.”

“Hello,” Pfefferkorn said.

“Ready?”

Pfefferkorn pulled on the underwear. “I’m going as fast as I can.”

“Inside your nightstand is a Bible. Taped to page one hundred twenty-eight you’ll find three quarters.”