Robert Ferrigno - The wake-up

"We're almost there." Thorpe tried to slow his heart, but all the training in the world wouldn't have helped now.

"The storage locker is just the beginning," said the Engineer. "I want names and numbers, bank accounts and buried treasure. Search your memory. Empty yourself."

Gregor tightened the belt again.

"Let him breathe, Gregor," said the Engineer. "Suffocation is our most primal fear, Frank, more basic than our fear of falling. In the womb itself, we dread that slow strangulation-a kink in the soft umbilicus, and our pink spaceman's face turns blue, then black. All the interrogation equipment in the world, all the sharp instruments and sophisticated electronics… I find them irrelevant to the task. Just give me a plastic bag; that's all I require." He patted Thorpe's leg. "Imagine the lady Claire fighting for breath, twisting and struggling, hands flapping like a baby bird… Trust me, Frank, you would tell me anything to bring her a single breath. You would even tell me the truth."

Thorpe stared straight ahead. It was another few blocks before he could speak without betraying his pain and frustration, without betraying his own small hopes. "At the next light, just past the water tower… take a left." They left the storefronts and restaurants lining the PCH. "Another left here."

They paralleled a nautical-themed housing development in Sunset Beach, the nearby marina brightly lighted, lined with small yachts and sailboats. A network of canals led out to the ocean, allowing the residents access to the open sea.

"Fancy neighborhood for a storage locker," said the Engineer.

"It's not located in a commercial storage complex-cops are always watching those for stolen goods. It's a private garage. I rent it by the year."

The Engineer nodded.

"The street comes to a T at the end of the block," said Thorpe. "Make a right at the dock and then follow the road along the canal."

As the Engineer slowed the big Buick to make the turn, Thorpe stuck out his left foot, jammed the accelerator to the floor. The engine raced, and the car shot straight ahead and over the walkway, the bottom scraping as they lurched over the seawall, briefly airborne. Thorpe lowered his window as the nose of the car hit the water, bobbed once or twice. A wave crested over the hood, and the car started sinking.

The Engineer tugged at the belt around Thorpe's neck. "You forget about this, Frank?"

"I haven't forgotten a thing," said Thorpe, his eyes locked on the Engineer as the water rose past their knees, seeing what he thought was just a hint of fear in the man now.

Gregor pushed at his door but couldn't budge it against the weight of the water. He tried to lower his window, got it halfway down before the electrical system shorted out. The water rose faster now, past the windows, filling the interior, splashing their feet, their knees, rising past their chests. Gregor screamed as the water rushed in, his head banging against the roof as the car slanted forward and settled onto the bottom.

The Engineer started to say something to Thorpe, but the water rushed over him.

The last of the air bubbled past Thorpe's face, tickling him as it percolated out his open window. He fought to stay calm, husbanding his last inhalation as the disturbed silt rose in a cloud. The water was clear and cold, but only fifteen or twenty feet deep. He could see the lights on the dock shimmering above them.

With the pressure equalized now, the Engineer slowly pushed his door open. He went to release his seat belt, but Thorpe laid his hand over the clip, made a fist, and the Engineer knew, fear blooming on that soft face like a poisonous anemone.

Gregor kicked at his door, but it was locked, and in his panic, he was jerking the handle in the wrong direction. More kicks, but he couldn't get any leverage. Buoyant as a whale, he bobbed around the backseat, struggling, using all his air. He beat his fists against the window, shattered the thick glass, and started wriggling through.

The Engineer tore at Thorpe's hand on the release buckle, mouthing something.

Thorpe hung on to the buckle as the Engineer's nails scratched him, the cold numbing the pain. There was a tiny flame in his lungs, but he could control it, keep it small. He thought of Claire, remembered the first morning he had awakened in her bed and seen her beside him.

Gregor was stuck halfway through the broken window, his vast middle too big to squeeze through, caught on the remnants of the safety glass at the bottom of the frame. The tiny chunks of glass were like baby teeth, and the more he struggled, the more the glass nibbled into him. Gouts of blood drifted through the interior of the car.

The Engineer lunged toward his own open door, gripped the jamb, strained to pull himself free, but his seat belt held him tight. Eyes wide now, he punched at Thorpe, hitting him in the face, but his blows were weak, slowed by the water.

Thorpe didn't try to defend himself-just let himself be hit, watching tiny bubbles pop out the sides of the Engineer's mouth like a broken strand of pearls. The Engineer kept beating at him, his eyes darting from side to side, but Thorpe stayed calm. Exertion used oxygen. So did fear.

The Engineer grabbed at something under his seat, pulled out a gun, but the weapon slipped out of his hands. Thorpe ignored the gun, just as he had ignored the punches, concentrating only on the buckle of the seat belt. The flame in his lungs was growing. Hard to keep it under control. The Engineer strained against him, his face contorted, thrashing wildly now, as though shot with electricity. They watched each other and Thorpe saw the light in the Engineer's eyes grow dimmer, saw the rage flare one final time and then go out. The Engineer's movements became fluid, racked with grace, his arms like seaweed on the tide.

Thorpe's chest was ablaze, head throbbing, spots dancing in front of his eyes. He didn't know what was funny, but it was all he could do to keep from laughing. He wanted to tell the joke to Claire. He fumbled at his seat belt, released it, his feet rising, his neck still affixed to the headrest. He braced himself, put both hands on the headrest, and lifted. It didn't budge. He felt sleepy. He thought maybe he should take a nap, then try again. Bad idea. He pushed at the rails of the headrest. It should have been easy.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Gregor, still lodged in the window, no longer struggling, his purple jogging suit rippling.

The cold worked its way deeper into Thorpe as he tugged at the headrest, slowly inching it up. He got his feet under him now, squatting on the seat, lifting with his hands and his legs. The headrest popped out of the seat. Free… free… free.

The Engineer watched him, dead eyes bulging.

Thorpe started out the window, felt a tug on his foot, looked back. It was shadowy in the car, paper and trash suspended in the murk, but he could see the Engineer's fingers bumping against his ankle, moving with the current, as though waving good-bye. Thorpe kicked away from him, squeezed out through the window, out and up to the light, the leather belt still around his neck, trailing the headrest.

Billy jerked awake, sat up in bed. He blinked at the darkness. "Hello, Frank."

"Hey, Billy."

Billy wore silk pajamas, red or black-Thorpe couldn't tell which- and he thought of Missy Riddenhauer in her silk robe the morning after the party, making snake sounds as she moved.

"You don't snore, Billy, not a bit, but you were talking to somebody in your sleep. What were you dreaming about?"

Billy forced himself to breathe.

"The things you were saying, the sound of your voice… was somebody chasing you?"

Billy's face was illuminated by the numerals of the digital clock beside his bed: 4:41. The bedroom was on the thirty-eighth floor, the penthouse. Billy had chosen the site for its isolation from the world below, but now it made him feel vulnerable. He smoothed the covers around his hips. "I don't know how you found me, but I'm glad to see you."