Remember Me (14 page)

I’m pretty sure she was happy with the response my body language projected to her. Christine brushed the hair back behind her right ear. I got a good look at the large diamond-stud earring and the very tip of a tattoo along her neck, just below and behind her ear. She looked at me only once before she put the car in drive. Her smile was like that of a dominatrix preparing to torment her prey.

I feared we would be racing through the streets, but instead she was a methodical and patient driver. After about ten minutes, we were deep into old Chicago. She eased the car over to the curb and put it in park. She turned the radio down and turned to face me.

“Mr. Warren, from here on, I’m going to ask that you wear this eye mask. Make sure it is tight, and that you can’t see.

You will also need to recline your seat back so that your head rests below the window. I will let you know when it is safe to remove the blind.”

She had a lovely voice, despite the authoritative sound of her commands. I guessed her to be around thirty. It dawned on me that Christine might not even be her real name, nor was Charlie even Charlie. I said nothing and reached out to S 100 S

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taking the blindfold from her hand. Her fingers were long and slender. Her hand was delicate. It did not look like the hand of a killer. The fingernails were unpainted, but perfectly manicured. I slid the blind over my head and put it firmly over my eyes. I found the handle to release my seat backwards. I let it fall under my weight until it would go no further.

She turned the car’s radio up loud. I’m sure it was to further mask the sounds from outside. We drove for quite some time before she took a sharp left, and the whole car jolted as it fought its way over a curb, or a large bump of some sort. I heard the whining sound of a motor as it raised a metallic door.

I knew it was metal by the pinging reverberation that I could hear. Christine moved slowly forward and stopped the car after a short distance. The squeaking sound of the door rolling back down on its tracks gave me an eerie feeling of doom? No, it was more like a feeling of captivity.

Christine shut off the car. “You can take off the mask now, Mr. Warren.”

I took off the mask and raised my seat to its normal sitting position. I could have been anywhere. The thing which instantly drew my attention was the rather large man standing next to my window. He opened the door for me, and I hustled out. He had on blue jeans and a dark blue work shirt with the name, “Roy” stitched over his left-breast pocket. He had to be at least forty, but he easily could have been much older. What I was most aware of was the fact that he was built like a brick wall! His biceps made my thighs look small. He had a receding hair-line and a buzz-cut. A large scar tweaked the corner of his left eye and ran across his cheek towards his ear. It gave him a very dangerous look. Not that the massive build and bulge under his shirt didn’t give me enough other reasons to be afraid.

I quickly glanced around at the rest of the space. For the most part it looked like a garage. It was possibly being used as an S 101 S

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auto repair shop, or maybe an auto refurbishing shop. One car was up on a hoist, and another sat behind it with the hood up.

I didn’t see any other employees milling around.

“Mr. Warren, would you follow me please!” Christine

called out to me from behind Roy. The big guy moved aside and I stepped cautiously by him. I followed Christine towards a large collection of used tires. On the backside of the pile of tires was a metal door. It had a sign hanging slightly askew on the outside with the word restroom on it. She opened it and stepped inside a good-sized bathroom. I did not expect it to be so large based on the outer appearance. It was also cleaner than I anticipated. Another door was on my right as I looked around.

For the majority of people, they would think of it as a storage closet. Knowing what I was here for, I believed it led to a secret world of counterfeit passports and social security cards.

Christine had her ring of keys in her hand. She selected one and placed it into the lock on the door. With a quick turn she dis-engaged the lock, turned the door knob, and opened the door.

The only light in the next room came from the light of the bathroom. I stood behind Christine. I felt the strong urge to call it a day and go back home. She took a step into the darkness and pulled on a dangling cord, hanging just off to the right-side of the door. A single light bulb came on and exposed the interior of the room. She stood in a room, which couldn’t have been more than six feet by six feet. Each one of the walls was lined with storage shelves that ran from floor to ceiling. Without hesitation, she walked to the back wall of the little room. From the middle shelf, Christine removed a gallon jug of some kind of cleaner. She reached her free arm across the shelf and did something I couldn’t see. I heard a sharp click and the instant humming of a motorized generator. The entire back wall slid away from us, and bright light poured into the room.

Christine turned around and walked back past me. She

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shut the bathroom door behind us. She then reached up and pulled the string to shut off the light bulb. “Follow me, and please Mr. Warren—don’t make any comments, only answer

the questions that are asked of you. I strongly suggest that you do so to the best of your ability. Follow the directions, and we should be out of here…just fine,” This last thing she said to me was full of cynicism: “Relax, Mr. Warren, it’s not the end of the world!” She left it hanging out there for me to ponder. She was enjoying her ability to torment me a little too much.

The first thought that came into my head after Christine’s last comment was about a pair of concrete shoes waiting for me if I didn’t follow directions. Coming out of the relative darkness of the small room into the bright white light of this room stunned my eyes. I had to look down at the floor until they could adjust. The contrast between this part of the building and the area we left behind could not have been more opposite. It was like the difference between neat and messy.

The room I was standing in could have doubled for a high-tech surgical room in any hospital. It was overtly clean and carried the crisp smell of cleanser with just a dash of ink scent to it.

I counted four individuals, besides Christine and myself, in the room. Charlie was one of the other four. There were no other doors that I could see, nor were there any windows. The entire room was approximately twenty by forty feet. As my eyes continued to adjust to the light, I realized my first assessment was slightly off. There were two doors along the wall to my left. One had a red tinted bulb over the top of it, which I took to mean that it was a photo-processing room. About the other door, I had no guess to where it might lead.

“Mr. Warren,” Charlie called out to me as he made his way towards us.

“Charlie, nice to see you again,” I returned and extended my hand.

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Charlie grasped my hand in his and gave it a genuine shake,

“I hope you had a pleasant morning, and Christine didn’t give you any trouble.” He looked over at Christine who mumbled something that sounded like, “Give me a break!” She and

Charlie grinned at each other. I garnered that it was definitely an inside joke between the two of them. Charlie put his arm around my shoulders and guided me to the round table at the back of the room. “Go ahead and sit down. We’ll get started and hopefully send you on your way in no time.”

I pulled out the hard plastic chair and sat down across from Charlie at the table. A tall, thin man, clearly in his late seventies, and wearing a white lab-coat crossed the room and sat down across the table. Charlie introduced him to me as Philip, his document specialist. Philip had absolutely no hair. His bald head reflected the light from the fluorescent bulbs overhead.

It gave him both a comical and extremely sinister look. The sinister part had a little more to do with his large hooked nose and beady eyes. The comical side coming from the extra large, black-framed, thick-lens glasses that he wore.

I was not prepared for the sound of his voice. It was completely out of character with his overall look. I had expected a high-squeaky, airy type tone, and instead I was hit with a full, deep sounding bass: “Mr. Warren, my pleasure to be working with you. We have lots to get through this morning. I’ll have several questions to ask you before we can actually start processing your documentation. After our talk, we’ll take several snapshots of you in different clothing and in varying looks.

Janet will work with you on the proper “look-phase” of the photo shoot.”

His voice had a calming effect, almost hypnotic. My mind delved deep into my old movie memories, and I came up

with a match, “Hannibal Lector.” Everyone I dealt with here was polite to an extreme. It was getting to the point of being S 104 S

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nauseating. I had reason to worry. They were professionals, and I was the buyer, paying a price for their special services. It was the unspoken price that I was beginning to wonder if I would ever be able to pay in full.

“Peter,” Charlie interrupted, “I need to leave for awhile.

There are other things I must take care of. Christine, and possibly myself as well, will be back here by…oh say…four-thirtyish. If you have a concern, Philip knows how to reach me.” Charlie narrowed his eyes, just fractionally, but enough for me to understand that I shouldn’t be asking Philip to get in touch with him.

“I can’t think of anything else I would need,” I said, smiling my best and trying to hide the nervousness within me. “I really appreciate all you are doing for me,” I added for brownie points—in case anyone was tabulating.

Charlie smiled back and rose from his chair. He and

Christine left in the same manner as she and I had arrived. I listened to the hum of the motor-driven wall and the sound of it closing the room off and me in it. It ended with a loud

“click” that echoed off the walls in the room where I was now prisoner. As the sound faded away, Philip stared at me through his thick lenses. His eyes looked three sizes larger from my perspective. I swallowed hard and he asked, “Are you ready to get started?” It was like asking a child if they were ready to start their punishment after breaking Mom’s favorite lamp. I had the uncanny feeling that my time would now become measured solely by their clock.

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No more fireworks.

July 4th, 1985

It was turning
out to be a rather strange day. I sat alone as dusk began to creep inside my apartment. I didn’t turn on the lights; the darkness fit my mood. For the most part I had survived my weekend in Chicago. I came away with my share of mixed feelings. Philip, Charlie, Janet, and for the most part, Christine had never stopped being excessively polite. I never got the impression that I was anything more than a business transaction. Yet, like a notion scratching at the back of your mind, I doubted I would ever feel entirely safe again. I had been tagged, marked, and let loose back into the wild. I constantly looked for signs that something was not on the up and up. I never saw one. If it was all a show, then they were very good actors.

Philip’s barrage of questions had been never-ending, me—

ticulous and without emotion. I understood, in principle, the rationale for the never-ending inquiries. To develop my new persona and make it as airtight as possible, it would be most beneficial if I could play the role impeccably. When the questions turned to potential childhood orientation, I was at a loss on how to answer. My true memories started in the nineteen sixties, not the late nineteen thirties and early forties. Every time Philip would ask a question about where I’d been, and the schools I’d attended, I drew blanks. The best I could do was to try to remember the stories my parents told me about their S 106 S

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childhoods. Very early on I got the feeling Philip either thought I was mentally off-kilter, or at best highly forgetful.

He persisted and we eventually made it through the interview process. My head hurt and I can only imagine what my lack of answers had done to him. We finally hammered

out a life profile. Peter Warren was born on January fifteenth, nineteen thirty-five. He attended school in Decatur County at Washkeegan country school, graduating in nineteen fifty-three.

Being the only son of Dorothy and Fred Warren, the Korean War and military service didn’t enter the picture. Peter attended Iowa State Teacher’s College where he graduated with a degree in Industrial Arts in nineteen fifty-seven. He took a job at John Deere & Co until nineteen seventy-seven when he left to pursue other opportunities. The last eight years would be more in the grey so I could formulate my own personal history of self-employment.

Officially, I would be a struggling inventor. I had been working nothing but part-time jobs to feed my ambition.

“The group,” as Philip and his staff claimed to be called, would supply all the necessary documentation to that extent. Tax return records, Social Security history, even my college degree would be above reproach. My last known address would be

in Chicago, until I made the switch to wherever I wanted to call my current home. The cost for my new identity— a mere sixty-eight thousand dollars. I had lots of questions that I could have asked. Like: “What if someone checks up on me at John Deere & Co because I listed them on my resume?” CJ’s words stuck firm in my mind, “Don’t ask questions!”

My new life history was kept simple to fit my current

needs. I had never married. No children and no spouse to complicate things. I could fabricate my life to fit around the basics. In outward appearance, I would have been one of those people that adults and others considered a loner. I was there, S 107 S

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but never one to draw attention to myself. I would be a shadow from the past who was about to materialize, and who would be making waves in the future.