Man of Wax (Man of Wax Trilogy) (5 page)

I said, “The toilet’s clogged,” jerking my thumb back toward the bathrooms, as if I’d been talking about the toilet down aisle three instead.
 

The clerk—his name tag announced him as Frank—gave a long, heavy sigh. “All right,” he said, nodding his thanks to me, and started to turn away.
 

I was ready. I was set. Now was the time, and I could feel the blood pounding away in my ears, palpitating even louder than before. Once Frank headed back there, plunger in hand, I’d hurry over to the candy rack, grab a Snickers, and get the hell out. Screw the cameras. If they were going to hunt me down over a dollar-something snack, the world was a lot more fucked up than I cared to admit.
 

At my sides my hands flexed in and out of fists, anticipating, waiting for the right moment, the moment when—
 

“Elliot,” Frank shouted toward the backroom, staying where he was behind the counter, “check the men’s, will you?”
 

He turned back to me, that same tired look in his eyes, and forced a small smile just as a young Mexican man emerged from the back. He had a plunger in his hand and started down the aisle, muttering to himself in Spanish.
 

The electronic bell sounded again—
ding, ding
—and two middle-aged men, both dressed in slacks and shirts and ties, walked in. They were talking together, in the middle of a discussion that seemed to hinge on the importance of a particular golf course. They headed toward the wall of cold beverages.
 

I caught Frank watching me again. That look of tiredness had changed, had become almost quizzical, and he said, “It should just be another minute or two. If you need to, use the women’s.”
 

A moment’s thought, a simple nod, and then I was headed toward the back again. Shit, this really wasn’t turning out as I’d hoped. And now I was angry. Just what the fuck was this all about anyhow? My wife and daughter were God knows where, held by God knows what, and the person who called himself Simon said that if I didn’t follow through with his instructions to the letter then they would be killed. And after all that, after all that build up, he wanted me to lift a fucking candy bar?
 

There was no answer behind the women’s door when I knocked. I stepped inside, not because I needed to use the toilet but instead to keep up appearances. I stood there for a very long time, staring at myself in the mirror dotted with watermarks and trying to decide just what the hell I was going to do now.
 

Eventually I ran the water, wet my hands, cranked the towel dispenser. Came out of the women’s room just as Elliot came out of the men’s. He gave me a brief curious stare but then seemed to decide I wasn’t worth the bother and started back toward the counter. The plunger at his side kept a constant trail as it dripped, dripped, dripped on the linoleum floor.
 

“Fuck it,” I whispered.
 

I walked over to one of the long glass refrigerated doors. I grabbed two bottles of water, the same size and brand as the SUV woman, then turned around, grabbed a bag of pretzels. Next was the candy aisle, and I glanced toward the counter, itching my chin on my shoulder so it wouldn’t look completely obvious. The two men who’d been discussing golf were there now. They were talking to each other still, barely even paying any attention to Frank as he began ringing them up on his register.
 

I didn’t hesitate another second.
 

I reached out and grabbed a Snickers bar and placed it in my pocket. One smooth motion, the candy going from place A to place B. Simple as that.
 

I approached the counter like I would any other time, not feeling guilty at all. Because I knew that if I felt guilty, I’d look guilty, and something told me Frank had been behind that counter long enough to spot a guilty face among a hundred faces. He probably told stories about it at home, eating dinner with his wife. Telling her about the crazy customers, the asshole customers, then of course the kids who thought they were hot shit and sometimes tried lifting bags of snacks and bottles of soda. But Frank knew what they were up to, he could always tell, and my, let me tell you about this guy I caught today. Looked to be in his thirties, had on these glasses that didn’t seem to go right with his face, and he had a Snickers bar in his pocket. Can you believe that? A goddamn Snickers bar.
 

Frank said, “Find everything you need?”
 

I started nodding but stopped. After setting the two bottles of water and pretzels down on the counter, I motioned at the cigarettes behind him. “Marlboro Reds too, please.”
 

Frank turned, grabbed a pack, and placed it on the counter next to the rest of my stuff. Then he started punching numbers into the register. The electronic bell sounded again, this time a young kid, couldn’t be more than sixteen, strolling in with his cap reversed on his head and a chain hanging from his pants.
 

“Anything else?” Frank asked, his hand already extended to take my money, and I thought:
Is it really this easy?
 

Then something else occurred to me.
 

“Actually, yeah,” I said. “Do you have any maps?”

9

Not even ten minutes later, back on the highway, the phone vibrated in my pocket.
 

By then I’d already smoked one of the Marlboros, was working on my second. I hadn’t smoked since Casey was born, agreeing with Jen that a new baby shouldn’t have to be exposed to secondhand smoke. I hadn’t even tried bargaining around the issue, asking if I could at least smoke outside, or when I was out on a job (which, I knew, I could have done without Jen ever finding out, but still didn’t). Now that I had a daughter my life had changed even more—I finally felt I had a purpose—and I intended to stay around as long as possible. Now, after all this time, I needed the cigarettes because otherwise I knew I’d lose it, and so far, the shakes hadn’t come back.
 

“Yeah,” I said, propping the cell phone between my ear and shoulder, so I could keep one hand on the wheel, one hand on my cigarette. My window was down just a couple inches, where I tapped the ashes. “I did it. I got you your Snickers bar.”
 

“I know, Ben. Remember, I see everything you see, I hear everything you hear. But you didn’t really follow the rules properly, now did you?”
 

I glanced at the stuff on the passenger seat: the Snickers, the bag of pretzels, the two bottles of water, the pack of cigarettes, and the folding map of California.
 

“What do you mean?”
 

A pause on Simon’s end, a kind of sigh, then: “What’s the point of lifting something if you’re going to buy other items too? You were supposed to lift the candy bar. That was all. Lift it and walk right out.”
 

“But you never said that. All you said was steal the Snickers. You never said I couldn’t buy anything else.”
 

“Ah, I see. So you want to play semantics, do you, Ben? Well, okay. Then when I say I’m going to kill your daughter and make your wife watch, does that mean I’m not going to rape your daughter too?”
 

“Jesus.” The cigarette was finished now, down to the filter, and I flicked it out the window. “She’s barely even four years old. A fucking baby. You ... you ...”
 

“Yes, Ben? What am I? Go ahead—say it. But keep in mind what I told you before. You call me anything else but Simon and either Jennifer or Casey will lose a body part. A finger, an ear, a toe. Or maybe an eye.”
 

The highway was curving all over. I was passing trees, mountains, even an occasional river.
 

“You’ve already broken one of the rules. Probably the easiest rule of them all, which makes me doubt your ability to even continue. Then you went and pulled that shit at the gas station. Well, fine, I understand you don’t quite believe this is real. That’s why I’ll have something waiting for you when you arrive at your destination.”
 

I swallowed, barely had a voice when I asked, “What is it?”
 

“Can’t tell you that, Ben.”
 

“Where am I going?”
 

“Can’t tell you that either. Spoils the fun.”
 

I grabbed the pack of cigarettes, stuck one in my mouth, punched the Dodge’s lighter and waited the few seconds for it to warm. Then I had the cigarette lit, took a very long pull, let it out. Closed my eyes briefly, tried to remain calm. I told myself I should have bought another pack of cigarettes back at the station, maybe even a carton.
 

After several seconds when I did my best to calm down, I said, “Can I ... can I speak to them?”
 

“Which one, Ben? I asked you before which one you loved more. Telling me which one you want to talk to now will answer that question, don’t you think?”
 

I said nothing. I took another pull. The road curved again, and I followed it, entering shadows which blessedly hid me from the glaring sun.
 

Simon said, “Okay, I think I can arrange something. After all, you need proof that this is real, right? Not like the blood on the door back at the motel was real or anything.”
 

“It wasn’t?”
 

But Simon had already disconnected. I dropped the phone between my legs. The road curved, the shadows fell back, and the sun found me again. Just a simple game of peek-a-boo, something every parent is familiar with. I remembered playing it with Casey when she was just a year old, the smile on her face brightening every time I showed my face from behind the blanket. I’d have played that simple game with her for hours, but then again I would have done anything for her. My precious baby. My little princess. My only child who would constantly draw me into a debate on how
Shrek 2
was twenty times better than the original, a little thing we had between us because Casey loved the
Shrek
movies (well, the first two) and we watched at least one of them once a month, if not more, just the two of us with a bowl of popcorn. I don’t know how it started between us, that never-ending debate, but I knew how much Casey loved arguing the point, how she was so much like Jen in that respect. And for that reason alone I maintained that I found the original
Shrek
the better movie, and would not be swayed no matter what kind of support Casey provided (the addition of characters like Puss-in-Boots and Fairy Godmother, the singing, how Shrek saved the day in the end), though internally I was always proud of her for never faltering.
 

Five minutes passed and the phone vibrated. I didn’t even bother to glance at the screen when I answered.
 

“Ba—Ba—Ben?”
 

It wasn’t Simon’s voice.
 

Time seemed to slow down once again and I whispered, “Jen? Jenny, is that you?”
 

“Ben, oh my God.” She burst out sobbing, and even though she was God knows where I could see the tears in her eyes. “Tha—tha—they cut—they cut off—they cut off my—”
 

She started crying out even louder then, and the sound fell away, until it was hardly even there at all. I started saying her name, again and again, asking if she was all right, if she was there, but there was only silence. Then, out of that silence, Simon spoke.
 

“Satisfied?”
 

“You,” I started to shout, but kept myself in check. I just closed my eyes, slammed my left hand against my forehead, ran it through my hair. Stay in control, I kept telling myself. Stay in control.
 

“Go ahead, Ben. You deserve to call me something now. I’ll give you a free pass.”
 

But I didn’t call him anything, though my mind was running through a continuous list of names. I kept hearing Jen’s voice. I kept seeing those tears.
 

They cut off my
—

Cut off her what? Good fucking God, what did they cut off?
 

“Now,” Simon said, in an almost chipper tone, “maybe you’ll start taking this more seriously. This is for real, Ben. Don’t doubt that for a second.”
 

“Why are you doing this?”
 

“To be one hundred percent honest,” Simon said, “I’m not really doing anything. I’m just the mediator. As far as everybody else is concerned I don’t even exist. You’re the main attraction. You’re the entertainment.”
 

“What are you talking about?”
 

“Do you spend much time on the Internet, Ben? Checking your email, looking up websites. Anything like that?”
 

“I ... what does that have to do with anything?”
 

“You’re addicted to porn, aren’t you? You sometimes spend hours on the computer looking at it. You’ve been addicted ever since you were in high school. When you got married you thought you’d stop but you didn’t, and you never once told your wife. Why couldn’t you confide in her, Ben? Maybe she could have helped you stop. Who knows, maybe she would have wanted to watch it with you.”
 

“How”—I swallowed, my throat suddenly dry—“how the fuck do you know all this?”
 

“I can’t say I blame you. Going out to the bar, trying to pick up a woman, either she’s going to say yes or no. And even then there’s no guarantee you’ll get any pussy. But porn? Porn will never turn you down. Isn’t that right, Ben?”
 

I said nothing, my hands squeezing the steering wheel.
 

“Do you ever think about those girls on those websites? Not the ones that are posing in their skimpy lingerie, touching themselves and whatnot, but the other ones. You know, the ones with the cocks in their mouths and pussies. Even the ones with the cocks in their asses. You get off just seeing them being gangbanged, that look each of them gets on their faces when they get close to climax. Go ahead, Ben, tell me you don’t. Tell me that doesn’t make your dick go hard.”