Man of Wax (25 page)

Another slight pause on Simon’s end. “What do you mean?”
 

“I’m just trying to figure out why you’re constantly talking. I understand you need to give me directions, you need to do the whole Simon Says bullshit, but I don’t really give a fuck about what you have to say. I’m pretty sure whatever viewers you have wouldn’t give a fuck either. You just like hearing the sound of your own voice. Come on; admit it. You’re envious that—”
 

“
Envious
? What the fuck do you think you’re talking about, Ben? Who the fuck do you think I’m envious of?”
 

“Me,” I said. “I’m the star of the show and it pisses you off. Because as far as anybody’s concerned, you don’t even exist. That’s why you keep me on the phone. The longer I’m talking to you, the longer the viewers have to watch me, and they have to wonder what’s so goddamned interesting. Well do you know what,
Simon
? Nothing you have to say is interesting. Not a goddamned thing.”
 

Silence on Simon’s end, silence so deep and pregnant that I was certain he’d disconnected. But I waited, and I listened, and I could hear his breathing on the other end, a shallow sound that was barely even there. I closed my eyes. Again thought about Jen and Casey, and how if they weren’t already dead they soon would be. In the next couple minutes most likely. Maybe even sooner.
 

“Look,” I started to say, meaning to apologize because it was the only way I knew how to try to make things right, but Simon cut me off.
 

“You’re right,” he said. “You are the star of the show. And right now the show must go on.”
 

“My family. Please don’t—don’t hurt them.”
 

“You’ve got it all wrong, Ben. If anybody hurts them, it’s you. Your actions dictate what happens to Jennifer and Casey. They dictate what happens to everyone else you call innocent. For a smart guy like you I would think you’d have realized that by now.”
 

“Listen, I didn’t mean—”
 

“What would you say to them? If you had the chance and it was the very last thing they’d hear. What would you tell them that would make everything all right, at least as all right as things can be?”
 

Again I closed my eyes. I was already picturing both of them dead, lying discarded in some random dark basement. I’d never really believed in Heaven and I still wasn’t sure, but I hoped it existed and that it was where they’d gone. I hoped wherever they were they were in peace.
 

“I’d tell them that I loved them,” I whispered. “I’d tell them that I loved them very much.”
 

“Seems a bit too cliché. Wouldn’t they already figure you loved them anyway? Why would you want to waste it? Remember, Ben, this is the
very
last thing they hear before they die. What words do you want to leave them with before they pass over onto the other side?”
 

“I—” But I couldn’t say anything else. I wanted to, but my voice refused to work.
 

“Just think about that, Ben. Think about what you’d say to them. Because it’s possible that might happen soon. It all depends on you. It all depends on how well you play the game.”
 

I kept my eyes closed, saw nothing in the darkness anymore. Not Jen’s face, not Casey’s.
 

“Now get onto to the expressway and head south until you get to 80. Then head east.”
 

“Where ... where am I going?”
 

“You know I can’t tell you that, Ben. But hey, what the fuck—you are the star of the show, right, so you should be treated like it. Okay then, here’s where you’re going.”
 

I opened my eyes. Stared through the windshield into a new kind of darkness.
 

“It’s a place you’ve been to before. A place you should be very familiar with.”
 

This was a darkness that had lights, contained people, yet for some reason I couldn’t see any of those people.
 

“A place even your wife and daughter have been before. A place they should be very familiar with. Have you guessed it yet?”
 

I couldn’t see any of those people, and I knew that while none of them were dead, none of them were alive either.
 

“Lanton, Pennsylvania.” There was no grin, not even a sneer, to Simon’s voice. “That’s right, Ben. You’re going home.”

45

Half past midnight, I was maintaining a steady speed along I-80, keeping up with the traffic but not going over anymore than I had to. The last thing I needed right now, the very last, was to get pulled over for speeding. Wouldn’t that state trooper feel special then? Probably win himself a medal or something.
 

I had the radio turned on hoping to hear snatches of the news, waiting until there was further word on what it now seemed CNN had everyone calling me. But there was hardly anything mentioned, only one quick report that the Anonymous Bomber was in FBI custody at this very moment.
 

Yeah, I thought, sure.
 

Nearly two hours after leaving the deserted parking lot, I had already entered Indiana, was passing the exit for the University of Notre Dame. The cell phone on the passenger seat started vibrating.
 

“Listen, Simon—”
 

“It’s not Simon, Ben. It’s Carver.”
 

At once I sat up a little straighter in my seat. The cruise control was on and I hadn’t touched either pedal in almost an hour, but now I lightly tapped the brake, began keeping steady pressure on the gas.
 

“What ... what do you want?”
 

“The Kid’s been working like crazy trying to find a connection. Looks like he might have come up with something.” Carver paused. “I know you’re in Indiana now. I think you should come back here to Chicago.”

“I can’t. I have to continue. I have to finish the game.”
 

“If that’s what you want to do, fine. But can you at least tell me one thing?”
 

“What’s that?”
 

“Does the name Howard Abele mean anything to you?”

46

I turned off at the next exit, pulled over to the side, stopped the Impala right before the stop sign. I put the car in park, turned on my four-ways, and waited.
 

The phone began vibrating almost immediately.
 

I ignored it.
 

Two minutes later—the phone having continued vibrating nonstop, Simon not giving up—headlights splashed me as a car turned off the same exit. It could have been anyone driving this late at night, but I knew who it was even before the sedan pulled up directly behind me.
 

I picked up the phone and answered it.
 

Simon said, “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
 

“Making a rewrite.”
 

“A rewrite? What the fuck does that mean?”
 

The sedan’s back door opened and my one-eyed escort climbed out. He slammed the door, looked once around the area, then headed my way.

I said, “It means something’s come up and I’m changing the script.”
 

“What are you talking about?”
 

“A special guest star appearance. You know, the stuff that really makes ratings soar.”
 

I disconnected the call and lowered the window right as my escort approached.
 

“Pardon me,” I said. “Would you happen to have any Grey Poupon?”
 

He said, “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
 

“You sound just like Simon.”
 

“You really want your wife and daughter to suffer, don’t you?”
 

“They’re already dead.”
 

“They will be if you keep pulling this shit.”
 

Another pair of headlights splashed us from the top of the off ramp.
 

I asked, “Do you have a family?”
 

“What?”
 

“A wife and children. Do you have any?”
 

“What do you care?”
 

“I feel bad for them.”
 

The man saw it in my eyes and stepped back and turned toward the oncoming vehicle, reaching for his weapon.
 

“Tell me,” I said, “what was the very last thing you said to them?”
 

The vehicle—an SUV—came to a sudden screeching halt. The front and rear passenger doors opened and two men stepped out, both with guns in hand. The one killed my one-eyed escort first, shooting him in the head, while the other opened fire on the two bent FBI agents in the sedan. By then I was getting out of the car, stepping over my dead escort, hurrying toward the SUV.
 

At first I thought one of them was Carver but then saw it wasn’t. Same build, same skin color, but a fuller face.
 

“Are you Larry?”
 

“That’s Larry,” the man said, indicating the driver. “I’m Drew.”
 

The other man stepped forward, offering his hand. “I’m Ronny.”
 

“Nice to meet you guys,” I said.
 

I went to get in the SUV’s open back door but stopped when Ronny grabbed my arm.
 

“Ditch the phone and the glasses.”
 

“I need the glasses to see.”
 

He just stared back at me.
 

I tossed the phone on the ground, glanced at the Impala, then said, “I’ll be right back.”
 

I hurried back to the car, leaned in, grabbed one of the T-shirts from the bag, started to lean back out but stopped. My gaze had settled on the glove compartment, and one side of my mind told me to forget it, that whatever I was thinking was crazy, while another side told me it was the best idea I’d ever had.
 

I returned to the SUV with the glasses off and wrapped in the shirt.
 

Both Drew and Ronny were frowning at me.
 

“Trust me.” I secured the shirt bundle on the roof of the SUV, made sure it was snug, and then stood back. “Now what?”
 

Ronny said, “Now we get the fuck out of here.”

47

The closer we got to the city, the more my anger grew. Initially I had taken what Carver told me without letting my emotions get in the way. That was how I was able to remain relatively cool and calm back at the exit. But now here in this SUV, along with Ronny and Drew and Larry, my anger had turned into rage.
 

Howard fucking Abele.
 

I remembered the first time I’d met him when Jen invited me over to the mansion, how he’d refused to shake my hand, claiming he was in a rush for a meeting. Then the second time, almost three years later, when I tried shaking his hand again and asking his permission to marry Jen. Then the third and final time, at Claire Abele’s funeral, where he pulled me aside and offered me the check for half a million dollars.
 

I had never seen or heard from him again. Jen had refused to even talk to him the few times he tried contacting her. She wanted nothing to do with him, had even gone so far as telling Casey he was dead—something that always hurt me, because it meant our daughter would never know any of her grandparents, what with my parents already gone. At least give her the chance to meet her grandfather, if not once—something I hesitantly mentioned to Jen and which she quickly shot down, dismissing the idea as if I was asking if she wanted mushrooms on her pizza. In the past couple years I hadn’t even thought of Howard Abele. He’d become nothing more than a ghost of the past, forever trapped in the back of my consciousness. I never once thought I’d ever see him again.
 

Now it looked like that time would come quite soon.
 

“How much longer before we get there?” I asked. It was almost three o’clock in the morning and traffic was light.
 

“About an hour,” Ronny said. He sat with me in the back, Larry and Drew up front.
 

“And Carver?”
 

“He and Bronson and David will meet us at the location. He wanted me to fill you in on everything first.”
 

“Like what?”
 

“The reason we’re going all out on this. It’s the very first time we’ve had confirmation of a contracted game. Carver’s hoping this man will give us some answers.”
 

“Answers to what?”
 

More than anything else, Carver wanted any and all contacts Howard Abele could provide. Anything that would take them closer to the key players involved. The Kid was able to track down the pages when they were posted—he had begun to sense a pattern, one that would change at any given time but which was somehow still predictable—but he could never get much further. Attempting to determine where the pages originated from was close to impossible. Attempting to determine a server was more likely but just as difficult. What they wanted but could never get were names, locations, anything that would help track down who was paying to watch. The people who were in charge were in charge for a reason—they were smart, well connected, and knew how the system worked. They no doubt had a dozen hackers just like the Kid keeping others (just like the Kid) at bay. Interference pages would come up almost all the time, trying to scramble the code the Kid had managed to break, and then the site would be gone. This would sometimes take minutes, sometimes hours, sometimes days.