Bill Pronzini: Shackles

Reflected headlamps and highway signs made occasional flickering patterns of light and shadow across the headliner, the seatback. The light hurt my eyes; I narrowed them down to slits. And then lifted up onto one elbow, trying to see over the top of the seat.

He whispered out of the darkness, “Don’t try to sit up. If I see you in the mirror I’ll stop the car and shoot you through the head. Do you understand?”

“I understand.” The words came out thick and moist, as if they had been soaking in the same oily sweat that filmed my body.

“Good. Lie back and enjoy the drive.”

“Where are you taking me?”

“You’ll find out.”

“When? How far is it?”

“Quite a ways. Do you like snow?”

“Snow?”

“A white Christmas,” he said, and laughed. There was nothing wild or crazy about the laugh; it was low-pitched, wry. He seemed to be enjoying himself, but in a grim, purposeful way.

I said, “Who are you? Tell me that much.”

“Don’t you have any idea?”

“No.”

“My voice isn’t familiar?”

“No.”

“Keep listening, keep thinking about it.”

“We’ve met before then?”

“Oh yes. We’ve met before.”

“When?”

“A long time ago.”

“Where?”

“Think about it. You’ll have plenty of time. And don’t vomit anymore, will you? I really don’t like that stink.”

I shifted around on the seat, trying to find a less cramped position. Lying supine was impossible because of the shackles and the folded-back arrangement of my arms; but I managed to get turned enough onto my right hip so that I was able to tilt the back of my head against one armrest. That way, I could look out through the opposite window on the driver’s side. Not that there was anything to see, just starlit darkness and intermittent flashes of light as cars passed going in the other direction. Once a highway sign flicked past but I couldn’t read the lettering on it. I had no idea where we were or how long we’d been on the road.

The cold air had helped my head, lessened the throbbing somewhat so that I could think more clearly. Why was it so important to him to keep his identity a secret? No idea. No idea, either, where or when or under what circumstances he and I might have crossed paths… except that it must have been in connection with my work. Possibly while I was on the SFPD, but more likely at some point during my twenty-odd years as a private investigator. But twenty years is a long time, and I had made so damned many enemies…

I gave it up when the mental effort began to resharpen the pain in my temples. Bile still simmered in my stomach; I locked my throat and jaws to keep it down. And don’t vomit anymore, will you? I really don’t like that stink . All right, you bastard. You’re in charge for now. But I’ll find a way to turn this around. Then we’ll see how you like lying back here with handcuffs on.

“What time is it?” I asked him, to break the silence.

“Why do you want to know?”

“It must be late. There’s not much traffic.”

“It’s not late. It’s early.”

“How early?”

“The beginning,” he said, and again he let me hear his laugh. “Tell me, are you afraid?”

“No.”

“You’re lying. You must be afraid.”

“Why must I?”

“Any man would be in this situation.”

“Just what is the situation?”

“You’ll find out. I don’t want to spoil the surprise.”

My mouth tasted raw and bitter from the vomit; I worked saliva through it, swallowed into a dry, scratchy throat. The fear was still inside me-he was right about that. But it was dull now, with nothing immediate to feed on; I had no trouble keeping it at bay. Not until a thought worked its way to the surface of my mind, a thought that ignited the fear like dry tinder under a match.

I tried to keep it out of my voice as I said, “How did you know where to find me tonight?”

“Kerry Wade, advertising copywriter, Twenty-four-nineteen Gold Mine Drive, Apartment Three. You sleep with her off and on, have for years. You see? I know a great deal about you and your lifestyle.”

“How do you know so much?”

“Oh, I have my sources.”

“Does Ms. Wade know you?”

“We haven’t had the pleasure. Are you worried about her?”

“No,” I lied.

“Of course you are. You’re afraid I’ll do something to Ms. Wade.”

I didn’t say anything. I did not want to provoke him.

“She’s attractive, isn’t she?” he said. “Yes, very attractive.”

This time I had to bite my lower lip to keep words from coming out.

Deliberately he allowed the silence to build. After a minute or so he said, “I could torture you with the idea. Make you think I intend to harm your woman. It’s tempting, I’ll admit… but I don’t think I’ll do it. No need for it, really. There’s such a thing as overkill, after all.” Another laugh. “Overkill-that’s very funny,” he said then. “Don’t you think so?”

I let myself say, “We were talking about Kerry Wade.”

“Yes, we were. I told you I won’t torture you that way and I meant it.”

“Does that mean you’ll stay away from her?”

“You needn’t worry. I have no interest in her now that I have you.”

He could be lying, playing head games with me. How could I believe anything he said? And yet, I had to believe it. If I didn’t, if I tortured myself with thoughts that Kerry might be in jeopardy, I would not be able to concentrate on the jeopardy I was in.

I said, “So you’ve got me. Now what?”

“You’ll find out.”

“You keep saying that. Why keep it a secret? I know what you plan to do with me.”

“Do you? I don’t think so.”

“Not the details, no. The end result.”

“And that is?”

“My death.” The words were as bitter in my mouth as the vomit taste.

“You think I intend to murder you?”

“It’s obvious, isn’t it.”

“Not to me. You’re wrong, you see. I’m not a murderer. When you die it will be of natural causes. Or by your own hand. You may want to commit suicide after a while-but if so it will be your decision, not mine.”

That last sentence frightened and repulsed me more than anything else he’d said. You may want to commit suicide after a while … My mind cast up all sorts of nightmare visions. Sweat broke out on my body again and my skin crawled and prickled with it. This was what it was like for the helpless victims of psychotic serial killers. This was what it was like when hell opened up and you saw what lay in the Pit.

For a few seconds a kind of wildness took hold of me, a mixture of hatred and fear and impotent rage. I thought of trying to work my hands under my buttocks, down around my shoes and up in front of me; of rising up, throwing them around his neck, throttling him with his own handcuffs-and take my chances on surviving the wrecking of the car. But it was a crazy idea, even if it were possible. And it wasn’t. My arms and lower body were so cramped it would take long, agonizing minutes to make the switch, if I could do it at all. And there was no way I could manage it without making noise, without having to rise up on the seat. Once he heard or saw me he would realize what I intended to do and stop the car and either shoot me or administer another dose of chloroform.

The wildness went out of me all at once, leaving me limp and shaken. Neither panic nor rash action was going to get me out of this. It would have to be guile, cunning, my wits against his. Now, trapped here in transit, there was nothing to do but wait it out until we got to wherever we were going. And not let my imagination create any more horror-film scenarios. Reality was never quite as hideous as anything you could dredge up from the depths of your subconscious.