No Way Back

by Matthew Klein

  ‘Yeah? If you’ve found him, why are you sitting here pointing a gun at me and asking me where he is?’

  ‘Well,’ he says, and smiles, as if I just caught him in a fib. ‘I should say I almost found him. Almost.’ His smile disappears. He raises his gun to my face. ‘Where is Ghol Gedrosian, Mr Thane?’

  ‘I don’t have a clue.’

  ‘Let me ask it a different way. Where is your girlfriend? What’s the name she’s using nowadays?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Your so-called secretary.’

  ‘My assistant,’ I say, automatically, as though it matters. ‘Amanda.’

  ‘Amanda. Where is Amanda?’

  So he didn’t find her. That’s good, at least. Amanda is safe.

  ‘Mr Thane, this is your final chance. Where can I find Ghol Gedrosian? Where can I find Amanda?’

  My mind tries to process his questions. They seem disjointed – they make no sense when put together, side by side. Where is Ghol Gedrosian? Where is Amanda? Two plus two is five.

  ‘Cut off his hand,’ Mitchell says. The command is so sudden, that I’m not sure who he’s talking to, or what he means, until I turn and see Ryan Pearce holding up a junior hacksaw, forged steel, a thin wire blade glinting like a wicked surgical instrument. He steps towards me, smiling.

  ‘Now wait a second,’ I say, but it’s too late. Pearce is a huge man – hugely strong – and he holds down my right hand – my free hand – against the chair, so painfully tight, that I think he might actually be crushing the bones within it. He lays the saw blade against my wrist. He looks to Agent Mitchell, who is sitting, leaning comfortably back in the leather seat, with his legs out, ankles crossed.

  ‘Mr Thane?’ Mitchell says. ‘Last chance. Where is Amanda? Where is Ghol Gedrosian?’

  Before I can answer, there’s a tap on the glass of the window. Mitchell rises from his chair. He looks to Pearce. Pearce releases my hand. He puts down the hacksaw on the desk, and moves with surprising grace to the window. He stands to the side. The wooden shutter is closed, with thin lines of sunlight pushing through.

  Another tap on the glass outside. Mitchell nods to Pearce.

  Pearce reaches out, pulls on the vertical lever in the middle of the shutter, opening the slats and letting sunlight flood the room. The sun forms bright yellow rectangles on the dark wooden floor. One of the rectangles highlights Doc Curtis’s skull, a chunk missing from the side.

  Everyone stares at the window. I am bound to the chair, seated too low to see anything outside the house, other than bright Florida sky; but Pearce turns to Mitchell and says, ‘There’s no one there. It’s completely emp—’

  The sound of cracking glass. Pearce alone stands bravely in the middle of the window, without reacting to the sound of the breaking glass, while Mitchell and I both flinch. Pearce stands motionless for a long time. He turns to Tom Mitchell, and opens his mouth, as if to speak. Then we see the black bullet hole, like a tiny cigarette burn, in the middle of his forehead. He collapses to the ground.

  Mitchell scrambles from the centre of the room, towards the wall, out of view of the shooter outside. His gun is out, moving quickly back and forth, searching for a target. He swings it to me. I think he’s going to shoot, but he says very calmly, ‘I think we have company out there, Mr Thane.’

  He sidles along the wall, to the second window. He pops his head up, looks out quickly, then ducks back down.

  I remember the pistol in Dr Liago’s drawer. My eyes flit to the desk. What’s the probability that it’s still there? That it’s actually loaded? That the safety is off ? Can I reach for the drawer, pull it open, grab the gun, and turn it upon Mitchell, with one free hand, before he can react? It seems unlikely. But it may be my only chance.

  ‘Mr Thane,’ Mitchell says politely, still crouching low beneath the window. ‘I’d like you to do me a personal kindness. I’m going to fire this gun, just once, thereby making a loud gunshot noise. After I do that, I’d like you to shout out that you’re fine, and that you’ve killed me. I’ll hide right over there, in that corner.’ He points to the side of the room. From that vantage, he’ll be able to line up a perfect shot at whoever enters Liago’s study through the only door. ‘When your friend comes running to help, I’ll solve our problem, and then we can continue our conversation. Does that sound like a plan, partner?’

  ‘Why would I help you?’

  ‘Remember how I said that I’m going to fire this gun, just once, to make a loud gunshot noise?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The “just once” part is negotiable.’

  He points his gun at my leg, which is strapped to the chair. He pulls the trigger. Everything happens out of sequence. There’s a kick at my leg, as if someone has swung a mallet at my shin, cracking bone; and then there’s an orange flame of gas shooting out of the gun muzzle, and then there’s the report of a gunshot, loud in my ears. The pain comes later, a tremendous white hot burst of it, starting at my ankle and exploding up into my thigh.

  I scream and wrench against the restraints of the chair.

  Mitchell crawls along the floor, past me, ignoring my yells, and he hides in the corner of the room, down low, where no one can see him through the windows. From this new position he’ll be able to shoot at whoever comes to my rescue.

  ‘Ready, Mr Thane?’ he says. ‘I need you to shout out that you’ve killed me, and that you can’t move, and that you need help, right away. Put a little melodrama into it, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘No,’ I grunt.

  ‘Mr Thane, I have more bullets than you have legs. I assure you, I do. And then let’s not forget about that hacksaw sitting right over there.’ He gestures with his chin to the desk. ‘It takes a very special man to last more than a minute, when there’s bladework involved. Remember, you’re just a software man.’ He emphasizes soft. ‘You understand?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then in the spirit of partnership, if you could just shout out as I have suggested. Say, “I shot him!” or something like that. Maybe a “Hurry!” or two for dramatic effect.’

  I clear my throat. ‘Help!’ I shout. I eye the desk drawer, where Liago’s gun is within reach – surely it must be.

  ‘Help!’ I scream. ‘I’ve killed him. I shot Mitchell. He’s dead. I need your help. Please!’

  ‘Very nicely done, Mr Thane,’ he whispers. ‘Now we’ll just wait...’ He stands up and turns his gun to the open door, ready to blast whoever steps through. Outside Liago’s study, I hear the sound of the house door opening.

  ‘Jim?’ comes a voice from the foyer. Amanda’s voice. ‘Are you in there?’

  With my free hand, I reach to Liago’s desk, and I pull open the drawer. The pistol is there. I wrap my fingers around it, and point it at Agent Mitchell. I pull the trigger.

  There’s a click – but no more – just the sound of metal striking metal. No bullet in the chamber. No magazine in the grip.

  Mitchell turns to me – his smile gone, his eyes soulless – and points his gun at my face.

  There’s a thwip sound.

  Mitchell looks surprised. He stares at me with a questioning look, as if he wants to ask me something that has been on his mind a lot lately.

  Then he crumples. He’s dead before he hits the ground.

  Amanda stands in the doorway, with a gun out, a long cylindrical silencer on the end of the barrel, pointing at the spot where Mitchell just stood.

  She studies his body. Then she looks around at the rest of the room, taking in the carnage, with a strange clinical detachment that surprises me.

  She sees the hacksaw on the desk. She goes to it, and she brings it to where I sit. She cuts through the tape binding me to the chair.

  I try to stand.

  I do stand, for exactly one second.

  Then something in my leg gives way, and I crumble. Down I go, and my chin slams against the wooden desk drawer, still open, directly under the path of my head, and for the fourth time in one day, I’m
out cold.

  CHAPTER 52

  She wakes me, and this time I know I haven’t been out long. Maybe a minute or two. Maybe five. In the slatted window, the sun hasn’t moved from its place high in the east. It is still Florida morning.

  ‘Are you OK?’ she asks.

  I’m lying with my head in her lap, and she’s stroking my hair.

  ‘Fine,’ I say. Which is not exactly true. My leg throbs. My vision is hazy, as if I am peering at her through an inch of cobwebs. I feel confused, dim, forgetful. My mouth is dry.

  ‘We need to leave here,’ she says.

  I try to sit up. Pain shoots through my leg, into my back. My jaw aches. I taste blood where I bit my tongue.

  I ignore the pain, and scuttle away from her, to put distance between us. ‘Who are you?’ I ask.

  ‘You know who I am.’

  ‘What’s your name? Your real name?’

  ‘My real name?’ she says. She thinks about this for some time, as if she long ago forgot what she was once called. Finally, she says,

  ‘Katerina.’

  A man groans. Amanda grabs her pistol. We turn to see Dr Liago slumped against the far wall, his eyes fluttering open. ‘Help me,’ he says, softly.

  I struggle to my feet. My head swims. I see a burst of light, and I feel myself losing consciousness. I grab a chair to keep my balance.

  I say to her, ‘Give me your gun,’ and hold out my hand.

  She looks at my open palm, considering. She clicks the safety off, and hands me the pistol.

  I limp with it to Liago, slinging my weight from one chair to the next, keeping my shattered leg raised above the floor.

  ‘I’m dying,’ Liago says.

  ‘Yes,’ I say. I lower myself into the chair in front of him. I stick the gun against his chin. ‘Tell me what you did to me.’

  ‘Please, call an ambulance.’

  ‘Who the fuck am I?’

  ‘You’re Jim Thane—’ he starts.

  I swing the gun an inch from his head and pull the trigger. The silencer muffles the shot, but the bullet slams into the wall near his head, and the sound of metal striking wood is loud, like the kick of a steel-toed boot beside his face. The wood splinters, and flies into his cheek. A drop of blood wells from the gash, and drips down his jaw. Liago shrinks away from me.

  ‘Tell me what you’ve done,’ I say.

  Behind me, Amanda – or Katerina – or whatever her name is – says,

  ‘Jim, we have to leave this place now.’

  ‘Soon,’ I say to her, and turn again to Liago. ‘Dr Liago—’ I begin. I think about it. ‘Are you even a doctor?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ he says.

  ‘What did you do? In our sessions? Our hypnosis sessions? What did you do to me?’

  ‘I did what I was told.’

  ‘What were you told?’ No answer.

  ‘Who told you?’

  ‘He’ll kill me if I say.’

  ‘I’ll kill you, asshole,’ I whisper, and I realize for the first time that I mean it. I will kill him. It doesn’t matter what he tells me, or doesn’t tell me. I will kill him for what he has done.

  He shakes his head. ‘You still don’t understand what’s happening to you, do you?’

  ‘Enlighten me.’

  He looks from me, to Amanda, and then back to me.

  ‘The folder,’ he says. ‘Top drawer.’ He looks at the filing cabinet across the room.

  To Amanda, I say: ‘Bring it.’ She hesitates.

  ‘Bring it,’ I growl.

  She goes to the filing cabinet. She opens the drawer and removes the single green folder that I found long ago, when I was alone in Liago’s office. The folder is thick with paper. She hands it to me. Her expression says, You’re not going to like this.

  ‘Read it,’ Liago says. ‘Then you’ll know.’

  I lay the gun in my lap. I open the folder and flip through the pages. Inside are the notes that I saw before – the tight cursive writing, the lines packed with blue ink. It’s exactly as I remember – a chronological list of important events from my life:

  VP Sales Lantek - Palo Alto 1999 - Met Libby Granville at The Goose (his waitress).

  Jim Thane asks Libby to date him four times:

  First time (1) ‘’she said: ‘Go to hell’ - her voice plain. Pointed finger to show him direction to find hell.

  Second time (2) she laughed - idea was hilarious - ‘Very funny, Jimmy! Me and you on a date!’

  Third time (3) handing him scotch over the bar. He speaks softly. Wisps of hair in Libby’s face. Indecision.

  Fourth time (4) runs into her at grocery store at night - express checkout lane - spying each other’s dinners -

  SHE SAYS YES.

  Party at Bob Parker’s loft, Thane gets drunk, makes pass at Parker’s wife when she serves canapés; Libby escorts him home.

  Gordon Kramer, St. Regis. Garage. Handcuffs. Parking Area 4C. Sobers Thane up. Avoids Parking Area 4C whenever he visits St. Regis.

  The list goes on and on, a catalogue of facts and trivia and minutiae. For a moment I’m amazed at this level of detail – they know so much about me! – so much about my life! How could they have gleaned it all? It’s practically impossible...

  Then I feel horror, as understanding comes.

  The details in front of me have not been culled from my life. They are my life.

  I can recall nothing about myself except for the details on these pages. Yes, I was the VP of Sales for Lantek. That much is true. But then what? I try to think back to those days... but can recall nothing about that company, other than its name, and other than my position there – Sales VP.

  What did my office at Lantek look like? Who was my boss? I can’t remember his name, or what he looked like.

  I try to think back to my courtship of Libby, but I can recall nothing specific about it... nothing except for that single entertaining fact – so often repeated – that I asked Libby out four times, and that she refused me the first three times; and that it was only on the fourth attempt, when we met in the supermarket, that she agreed to have dinner with me.

  ‘I can’t make you believe things that you don’t want to believe,’ Liago is telling me, somewhere in the distance. ‘No one can do that. That’s not how hypnosis works.’

  ‘Jim,’ Amanda says. She sounds anxious. ‘We have to leave here.’

  I ignore her. To Liago, I say: ‘Tell me how hypnosis works, doctor. I’m fascinated.’

  ‘You have to want to believe things.’

  ‘This is what I want to believe? This?’ I shake the folder in his face.

  ‘That this is me? This pack of... lies? That I’m married to a whore? Who’s not even my wife? Did we ever get married? I mean... for real?’

  ‘No,’ Liago says, quietly. He pauses, considers his next words carefully. ‘The real Jim Thane married a woman named Libby. That part is true. Those are his stories... ’

  ‘The real Jim Thane? I’m the real Jim Thane!’

  ‘No,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘No.’ I shout: ‘Who the fuck am I?’

  And I pull the trigger.

  The gun goes off, and I hear a crack, and I am extremely interested to see where the bullet strikes.

  About a foot to the left of Liago’s heart, it turns out, lodging itself into the wall next to him, although this fact is purely the result of happenstance, not aim. It could just as easily have been twelve inches to the right.

  ‘Please,’ Liago says, cowering, ‘please. Don’t hurt me. I only did what I was told. I didn’t have a choice. He was going to ruin me. He was going to show those pictures.’

  ‘What pictures?’

  He shakes his head.

  ‘What pictures?’ I ask again, and I lift the gun to his forehead.

  The words tumble from him in an incoherent rush. ‘I had patients... addicts... young girls... I didn’t mean to do it... just trying to help... he took pictures... I made bad choices... bad choices... I wish I could take them back.�
�

  ‘Bad choices?’ I repeat.

  ‘He tempts you,’ Liago whispers. ‘You see? That’s what he does. He knows what you want, and he gives it to you. Exactly what you want. And when you accept his gifts, he owns your soul.’

  ‘You fucked your teenage patients, doctor. Let’s not get metaphysical about it.’

  Behind me, Amanda says, ‘Jim, we have to leave now.’

  I lower the barrel of my gun and place it on Liago’s chest, pointing the muzzle at his heart. ‘Get it out,’ I say.

  ‘Get what out?’

  ‘All of it. Everything you put into my head. Take it all out. That party in the loft? That time Gordon chained me up in the parking garage? None of it was true, was it?’

  ‘It was true. But it happened to... ’

  ‘I know,’ I say. ‘I know. The real Jim Thane. Just get it out. Take it out of my brain. Right now.’

  Liago shakes his head. He looks terrified. He whispers, ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘You don’t understand.’

  ‘What don’t I understand?’

  I push myself up from the chair. Pain fills my body. My nerves are on fire. For a moment, all the colour in the world fades – turns transparent – and I feel myself fainting – falling. I grip the top of the chair. ‘Tell me,’ I say through gritted teeth, ‘what I don’t understand.’

  ‘He will kill me if I tell you.’

  ‘Who will kill you?’

  ‘You know who.’

  ‘I will kill you,’ I say. ‘I will kill you. If you don’t tell me what’s going on, I will kill you.’

  He looks into my face. ‘You want the truth?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The truth is... ’

  His head explodes like a Chinese paper lantern with a cherry bomb inside. One moment it’s there; the next moment it’s gone.