The Inner Circle (Man of Wax Trilogy) Page 13

  “I don’t know. Depends on the vote tonight.”

  “Right. But what if ... what happenth if the vote ith we thplit?”

  “Then we split. Go our own separate ways.”

  Jesse shook his head. “I don’t know where I’d go.”

  “Me neither.”

  I forced a smile, then got up and started toward the door.

  Jesse said, “I felt ... cold.”

  I turned back around. “What do you mean?”

  “When I heard about what happened to Carver. I felt cold.”

  “Do you ... feel cold now?”

  He shook his head, staring down at his hands.

  “It’th like thith, okay? There wath thith old cowhand I uthed to work with. Old man we all called Rex. He was like eighty, eighty-five, thomethin’ like that. Anyhow, one night he tharted complainin’ about gettin’ real cold. He kept thayin’ he could feel it comin’. Everybody, we all ignored him, figured he was ramblin’. But every night, without fail, he keepth thayin’ he’th cold. Finally I ax him what’th wrong. I’m like fourteen then, okay? Been there only a year. And tho I ax Rex, and you know what he tellth me? He thayth he can feel Death comin’. Like Death with a capital D. He thayth that’th what it feelth like when you ’bout to die. You feel cold. And not like you feel cold in the middle of the night, when your blanket ith thin and you’re thiverin’. I mean cold, like in your thoul.”

  He paused, still staring down at his hands, still massaging his palms, the tips of his fingers.

  “There at the end, he even thaid he could thee him comin’. Death, I mean. He thaid he could actually thee him comin’ for him. One night, it wath only me around, and I don’t know why I thayed, but I did. And Rex ith lying there, thaking, thaying that Death ith right there with uth, about to touch him. And you know what Rex thaid? He thaid the hand of Death wath like ice. And ever thince then, that’th thuck with me. That idea about Death. And ... and that’th what I felt when I heard about Carver. I felt cold. Like in my thoul.”

  He looked up at me, his eyes glassy with tears.

  “Like ... like Death ith comin’ for me next. Like it’th comin’ for all of uth.”

  28

  I headed back downstairs. Turned the corner to find Beverly and Maya in the kitchen, both of them at the sink, Beverly washing the dishes and Maya drying them.

  Maya had a plate in one hand, a dishtowel in the other. She forced a smile and said, “Hey.”

  I nodded at her, forced my own smile.

  Beverly had her hands in the warm soapy water, scrubbing a copper pan. She smiled at me too, though her smile wasn’t at all forced.

  I asked, “Beverly, do you have the Racist’s dinner ready yet?”

  Even though we knew the man’s real name, we always referred to the latest player we saved as their show name, at least until we were certain they were on the level.

  Her back to me, rinsing the pot, Beverly said, “It’s still in the oven. About another ten minutes before it’s done.”

  “Can you have it ready for me then, please? I’m going to head over there next.”

  Maya said, “Want me to come along?” There wasn’t so much hope in the question as simple curiosity.

  I took a moment, as if really considering it, then said, “Thanks, but I already asked Jesse to come along with me.”

  She nodded once, like it was no big thing. She took the dripping copper pot from Beverly and began wiping it with her towel.

  I waited a moment, expecting more questions, and when none came I turned and headed downstairs.

  • • •

  THE BASEMENT WAS split up into two sections. On one side there was a matching washer and dryer, a hot water heater, a furnace. On the other side were tables lined up against the wall, four computer monitors spread out on top of them. A few bookshelves, a TV, a radio, even a mini-fridge.

  I found Ian slumped in front of one of the tables, his left leg propped up on a chair. He was reading a thick book. He didn’t hear me coming down the old and creaking steps because of the earbuds in his ears.

  Graham had done the work on the leg, making a splint and then bandaging it. Ian couldn’t be taken to the hospital, he couldn’t get the proper medical attention he needed, so this was the best that could be done.

  I stood there for a long while, staring down at the leg, hoping against hope that it would heal properly.

  A part of me didn’t want to interrupt him, so I just continued standing there. Moving my focus away from his leg to the computer monitors. Only one of them was turned on, split so it showed four different pictures. All were of the safe house, and the Racist inside.

  The big man lay on the cot, staring at the ceiling. He was so still it didn’t even look like he was breathing.

  Ian finally sensed me. He glanced over, his head bobbing slightly to the beat, started to turn back to his book but instead jumped, did a double take.

  “Son of a bitch.” He closed the book with a snap, sat up straighter in his chair. He yanked the earbuds from his ears, picked his iPod up from his lap and turned it off. Looked back up at me and said, “What the hell are you trying to do, Ben, scare me to death?”

  “No.” I shook my head, attempted a small smile. “But I didn’t want to interrupt you, either.”

  Ian sucked in a deep breath. He lifted his Red Sox cap, ran his fingers through his hair.

  “What are you reading?”

  He glanced down at the book on his lap, held it up so I could see the cover. “Just catching up on some history.”

  It was one of the fifty or so books Carver had purchased two years ago. Mostly history texts that dealt with the Roman Empire. He’d wanted us to read up on the subject as much as we could, and would even test us every few weeks.

  I lifted my chin at the computer monitor. “How’s our boy?”

  “Our boy isn’t doing much of anything. Hell, I don’t think he’s moved from that cot in the past seven hours.”

  “Do you know if he’s read it yet?” Meaning the thing I’d written two years ago, the story of the Man of Wax.

  Ian, staring at the screen, shook his head. “I haven’t seen him touch it. Not after you first gave it to him.”

  I nodded but didn’t say anything.

  Ian sensed the awkward silence and glanced up. “So,” he said.

  “So.”

  We just stared at each other.

  Swallowing, feeling a lump in my throat, I said, “So ... I wanted to apologize. You know, about what happened this past weekend.”

  He waved a dismissive hand. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “You know I can’t do that. I gave you up. You were right to be pissed at me.”

  “My leg had just been broken, Ben. I was in a lot of pain. I was pissed at everything. So yeah, it didn’t help when you gave me to that guy, but ... well, it worked out.”

  “It might not have.”

  “But it did. I’m here. You’re here. That little girl was saved. That’s all that matters.”

  Neither of us mentioned Carver. Neither of us mentioned anything more of the mysterious rider who’d come out of nowhere to save us.

  I asked, “So what do you think about him?”

  Ian took another deep breath. He glanced at the screen. “I’m not sure yet. You?”

  “I’m not sure yet either. But the past four times I’ve been in to talk to him, he hasn’t said a word.”

  Above us there were footsteps, Beverly and Maya moving about the kitchen.

  I said, “You know what Carver said about him that night? Right after we’d left the club?”

  “What’s that?”

  “He called the Racist a loose cannon. He said ... he said he reminded him of Christian Kane.”

  Ian bit his lip. He glanced at the screen once more and whispered, “It might not matter after tonight anyway.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  Ian shrugged. “Depending on how we all vote.”

  “What’s yo
ur vote?”

  Ian just stared back up at me, his expression flat. Confirming what I already guessed.

  “Do you think that’s the wisest decision?”

  “I don’t know what to think anymore.”

  “But what would you do? How would you survive?”

  Ian suppressed a laugh. “You make it sound like I would be dropped in the middle of the Sahara without water.”

  “But at least you’re protected here. We’re a family.”

  “We are not a family, Ben. We’re just a bunch of people who got fucked over in life. Yeah, okay, so we got a second chance, that’s great. Carver gave it to us and I appreciate that. But now? Now we get a third chance. How many people can say that?” Ian shook his head. “Do you want to know what I think? Honestly?”

  I waited.

  “I think you’re scared. Shit, I can’t blame you. I’m scared too. My life ... it’s over. I can’t go back home. I can’t endanger the lives of any of my friends, or even distant family members. You got to figure Simon and his crew would find out about that pretty fast. So what am I supposed to do? How am I supposed to live?”

  I crossed my arms, didn’t say anything.

  “So yeah, Ben, I’m scared. I’m scared to death. But who knows, maybe everyone will vote differently. Maybe we’ll stay together. If that happens, fine, okay, I don’t mind staying.”

  “That’s bull.”

  Ian nodded. “Of course it’s bull. I don’t want to stay here if I don’t have to. Not now. Not without Carver. I mean, seriously, Ben, you think we can continue doing what we’ve been doing? Who’s going to lead us?” He snorted. “You?”

  I said nothing.

  Ian dropped his eyes. “Look, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to sound like an asshole. It’s just this fucking leg won’t stop hurting. The painkillers we have here aren’t strong enough. You have no idea what I’d do for a Vicodin right now. But anyhow, you have to look at it this way. No matter what you think or how you feel, you have to understand this simple truth: now without Carver, nothing will ever be the same again. Nothing.”

  “You sound just like the Kid.”

  “Do I? Well, I guess I’m okay with that. I mean, the Kid is a genius, after all.”

  There was movement on the computer monitor. The Racist was sitting up, swinging his feet off the bed. He just sat there for a moment, then looked up directly at the camera. Lifted his right hand and gave us the bird.

  “Oh look,” Ian said. “I think that’s your cue.”

  29

  The Racist looked like he was dead.

  He must have heard me open the safe house door, walk in and close it. He must have heard my footsteps on the concrete floor, the noise of the bottom gate opening as I slid his new tray of food into his cell, took away his untouched tray from this morning.

  But he didn’t stir. His slow and shallow breathing didn’t change.

  “Mason,” I said.

  He continued lying there supine on the cot.

  “I saw your little message earlier. I’m assuming that means you now want to talk.”

  Still no response.

  I went to the desk just outside the bars and set this morning’s tray of food on top. It had been pancakes and scrambled eggs and bacon with maple syrup. When I’d slid it into his cell this morning the food had been warm. Now it was cold and hard.

  I pulled the chair out from the desk and sat down. Placed my arm on the desktop and tapped a slow but steady beat with my ring, middle, and index fingers.

  The safe house was a small, squat building made completely of cinderblocks. Half of the room was the holding cell, which contained a cot, a toilet and sink—these last two tucked away in the corner and concealed by a plastic blind for privacy from the cameras.

  To be honest, calling it a holding cell wasn’t fair. It wasn’t the type of holding cell you’d find in a local police station. Ours also contained a mini-fridge, stocked full of bottled water and fruit, and a telephone that, when picked up, immediately called the farmhouse.

  Mason hadn’t touched the phone once. As far as I knew, he hadn’t even opened the fridge.

  Three of the four cameras were positioned in the ceiling corners of the safe house. Two looking straight down at the middle of the holding cell, at the cot and fridge. The other on the other side, looking down at the metal desk and chair. The fourth was outside, right near the door, facing the trees and trail leading up to the safe house.

  Today Beverly had cooked the Racist meatloaf covered in ketchup, mashed potatoes and broccoli. Steam rose from where the meal sat on the floor just within the cell. It was getting cold, and something told me it would go untouched until I brought another meal.

  A minute passed in silence.

  I watched the Racist, his chest slowly rising and falling. He wore the same clothes as he had the night we picked him up in Miami Beach. I’d brought him fresh underwear and socks, a pair of sweatpants and a sweatshirt, all of which lay folded in the corner of the holding cell, but he hadn’t touched those yet.

  I continued tapping.

  Another minute passed.

  More tapping.

  Mason Coulter said, “You killed my family.”

  My hand stopped at once, the ring finger already touching the desktop, the middle and index fingers frozen in midair.

  “I could have beaten him. I could have won the game. But you ... you people had to come and fuck it all up.”

  I leaned forward in my seat. “Do you seriously believe you had a chance at winning the game?”

  Mason said nothing.

  “Nobody wins the game. That’s the whole point. Simon and his people push you and push you until you have no more give left and you either kill yourself or they kill you. And your family? They’re already dead.”

  Mason bolted up from the cot. His face was red. The lights above him shined off his bald head.

  “You don’t know that.”

  “But I do. I’ve explained this to you already. I even asked you to read that”—I gestured at the bound manuscript on the floor next to the clothes—“but you haven’t. Why? Why are you making this difficult?”

  “Go fuck yourself.”

  “We’re trying to help you, Mason.”

  “Oh yeah? A lot of fuckin’ help you’re doing me, keepin’ me locked in here.”

  “I explained that to you also. This is only temporary. Your cooperation dictates how long we need to keep you in here.”

  “Yeah? Well if I were you, I’d keep me in here forever. ’Cause the minute I get outta here, I’m gonna break your fuckin’ neck.”

  Mason glared at me another moment before he lay back down on the cot.

  I closed my eyes, took a deep breath.

  “Mason,” I said.

  No answer.

  “Mason, what’s your definition of evil?”

  Still no response.

  “I know you hate black people. Are they evil?”

  Mason continued lying there, staring at the ceiling.

  “How about the Jews? What have they done to you personally? How are they evil?”

  I focused my gaze on the plate of meatloaf, which was still steaming.

  “I don’t know about you, Mason, but I never really thought much about evil. It was just a word to me. The difference between right and wrong, yeah, that’s easy. But evil? I didn’t know evil until the first time I spoke to Simon. Until I heard his voice and realized what it was he wanted me to do.”

  I shook my head.

  “So I began to believe that Simon was evil. That Caesar was evil. But just them, you know? Not the rest of us. Not everyone else that I considered ... normal. But then a year ago, there was this guy we rescued from one of the games. He was a real big guy, just like you. His show had been called The Gravedigger. He acted like he didn’t give a fuck either. He acted like he wasn’t scared. But he was scared. And so we welcomed him into our little family. We explained to him what was going on. How he’d been used simply as entertai
nment. How he never had a chance at saving his family. It was hard to accept—it’s always hard for a player to accept the truth—but he understood. And you know what he said to us? He said he wanted to help us with our fight.”

  The meatloaf had stopped steaming completely now.

  “There was this girl we’d saved only two months before the Gravedigger. Her name was Vanessa Martin. She was twenty-four years old. Very pretty. She’d been a waitress at a diner in Alabama. She had never done any wrong to anyone a day in her life, and then all of a sudden she had woken up in Simon’s game. But she was tough. She wouldn’t back down. And not even a week passed since we’d saved the Gravedigger, when we had started to train him. He had seemed normal enough, but one night he managed to get Vanessa alone. I don’t know what happened exactly—maybe he tried hitting on her, flirting with her, something like that, though until then he had never expressed any interest in her as far as I know—but he took a knife from the kitchen and managed to get Vanessa alone and he ... he raped her. He kept the knife at her throat, telling her he’d kill her if she screamed, and he tore off her clothes, wrestled her to the ground, and raped her.”

  I stood up and went to the holding cell, wrapped my fingers around the cold bars.

  “He raped her, Mason, and then he killed her. But he didn’t do it fast. He started slow, cutting her in different places first. She must have cried out, or someone must have realized the two of them were gone and suspected the worst, because right before he was able to drive the blade into her throat, Drew burst in on them. The Gravedigger—remember, a guy about your size—he fought him. He stabbed Drew in the stomach and threw him down on the ground and started cutting him. He cut him all across the face. Would have killed him, too, but then Carver came in. Carver took his gun and placed it right against the Gravedigger’s head and pulled the trigger.”

  I paused. Realized my eyes were closed. That I had been seeing the entire thing happening in my mind.

  Opening my eyes, I stared down at Mason.

  “The Gravedigger’s name was Christian Kane. And to me, he was evil. He was even more evil than Simon. Because Simon, he doesn’t pretend to be something he’s not. Simon knows what he is. But Christian? He pretended he was normal, just like one of us.”