Shadow Traffic

by Richard Burgin

  “Wilhelm got us away from him. He saved my life, so how can I hate him?” she said, crying a little. “Do you expect him to be a normal man after what my father did to us? We both want to forget, that’s all. What else can we do?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, trying in vain to make eye contact with her, and then looking away himself.

  “Of course you don’t know. You screw me but you don’t know. You only know I’m a permanently ruined woman, right? That’s why I plan to forget you.”

  He looked up and saw that incredibly she was already dressed.

  “I’ll tell you what else I know,” she said, looking sharply at him. “You’re a weak and terribly confused man, yourself. You’re playing some kind of dangerous game. I know that much and Wilhelm knows it too. Maybe it’s with Memo, maybe not, but it’s a dangerous game that could have a very bad ending.”

  “Did you tell Wilhelm that?”

  “I don’t have to. We think the same thoughts. Things are going to be closing in on you very fast, Andrew. My advice to you is to get out of here right away. Get out of all your lonely-hearts clubs and leave New York right now. You’re from someplace else, right?”

  “Yes, a town in Mass …”

  “Don’t tell me, it will be one more thing I’ll have to forget. Just go back to it.”

  “But can’t you give me a chance to talk with you first?”

  “Just forget it,” she said, letting herself out his door and slamming it behind her. All she had left (he noticed a moment later), whether by accident or design, was two more Oblivion pills. He stared at them as if they were a pair of eyes to which he was drawn, wondering how much they could help kill his pain. But there was no time for such self-indulgence because his fear was even stronger. She’d warned him, but what exactly had she said? He took a Memo to remember it more clearly. Almost instantly her words came back, as did his meeting with Wallace at the party. Which one, if either, could he trust?

  He began frantically packing his suitcase, thinking that both Memo and Oblivion knew his phone number, e-mail password, credit card number, and address. Had he left any incriminating e-mails? He didn’t think so, but there was no time to check. Had they tapped out his credit card by now? He’d better take as much cash as he could, especially since he couldn’t fly directly to his parents’ home—he’d have to go to Boston first.

  He continued to think the key was Wallace. If Wallace was a double agent, then Memo would be coming for him soon. But if Wallace was working for Oblivion, he could be equally as dangerous. He felt the same uncertainty about Wilhelm and Seven. For all he knew they could be double agents working for Memo too. He felt a pain again as he thought of Seven. If her warning was sincere, maybe she’d felt something for him after all.

  How could he have gotten himself into such a mess so quickly? He’d simply wanted to remember his childhood better, to improve his memory, and somehow he’d gotten into a situation where his very life was in danger. There must be some flaw in him that caused this to happen. But why had Memo chosen him? Was it his very blandness and reliability that influenced their decision? One thing he knew, he wasn’t suited to work undercover for anyone.

  The phone rang and he stood frozen in his spot before answering on the fifth ring. Whoever was on the other end listened to him say hello and then hung up. Instinctively, he looked out his window on West End Avenue and thought he saw someone move behind a dumpster. Reaching in his pocket, where he’d put both kinds of pills, he swallowed an Oblivion. He decided then to leave from the basement exit, which he didn’t think either organization knew about.

  If I think about my home, things will get better, he said to himself, already forming an image of his aging mother’s welcoming arms, as he got in the elevator and began his descent.

  “Do You Like This Room?”

  “Do you like this room?”

  “Yes, it’s very nice.”

  “You don’t say that with much conviction,” he said, leaning forward in his chair, which faced her on the sofa.

  “It’s a fine room, really. It looks like it’s your entertainment center.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  She pulled back some of the hair that had fallen over her eyes, hair that she now realized was the same color brown as his. “Because there’re so many things here that are entertaining … like your giant TV and your stereo.”

  “Do you think the TV is too big?”

  “No, it’s a wonderful size. It must be great to watch movies on.”

  He seemed to relax a bit but was still looking at her intently, as if checking her face against an identification card.

  “Did you like the restaurant we went to tonight?”

  “Yes, very much.”

  “The food, the service … did it live up to your expectations?”

  “It exceeded them.”

  “And was your crème brûlée all right? I remember you hesitated before choosing it. Was it too sweet or too bitter?”

  “It was too good. I hadn’t meant to eat all of it. I meant to share some of it with you, but I guess it turned me into a little pig,” she said, laughing for a few seconds.

  He nodded and watched her drink her gin and tonic.

  “So did the restaurant seem the kind of place you thought we should go to? I mean on a second date. Did it meet those expectations?”

  “Yes, of course. I mean I didn’t have any expectations … I”

  “Why not?”

  “Anything would have been fine but what you chose was excellent, just right. Why are you asking me all these questions? It’s starting to make me a little nervous.”

  “Do you really want to know?”

  “Yes, I do,” she said, finishing her drink and setting it down on the glass table in front of them. He watched her cross her legs—her skirt just above her knees—before answering her.

  “It’s because of the last woman I was with.”

  “Oh.”

  “There are probably other factors involved, but for the most part I lay this at her feet.”

  She made a supportive sound that stopped just short of being a word.

  “You look mystified,” he said. “See, just before she left me she said I never asked if she was happy, so now I’ve learned to ask.”

  “OK, I understand,” she said, nodding.

  He also nodded, as if imitating her, and finished his drink. “You may be wondering why I didn’t ask you any of these questions during our first date. It’s because I figured I’d get my answer when I asked you out again. That if you said yes it meant you liked the first date.”

  “I did like the first date. I liked it quite a bit.”

  “I guess you think I’m being silly saying all this since you’re here in my condominium, right?”

  “It’s not silly,” she said, straightening her skirt so that it was at knee level now or perhaps just below.

  “Hey,” the man said, his green eyes suddenly becoming animated, “are you in the mood to play a game?”

  “What kind of game?” she said, smiling and wondering if he was finally going to make a move.

  “A surprising game. A game you would never think of playing.”

  She looked at him—it was as if a whole new side of his personality was suddenly opening like a door revealing a garden. It gave her more hope about him since he’d seemed a trifle bland until now, although also very nice.

  “Everyone likes surprises if they’re fun,” she said.

  “Would you like to play one of the games I invented?”

  “I’m not sure I understand. You mean a board game or …?”

  “No, this isn’t the kind of game you could buy in a store. We play it with our minds.”

  “Well, maybe you could tell me about it first.”

  “I invented it a few minutes ago while you were asking me why I asked you so many questions. Here’s how it works. One of us plays the role of God, I mean the typical Christian all-knowing God, and the other plays a p
erson, or is just ourselves. Don’t worry, we can switch roles. Anyway, God asks the person questions about how he likes the world, and the person asks God if He approves of his behavior as a person.”

  She told him she wasn’t sure she understood, while trying to camouflage her disappointment. He assured her she would understand and said he’d start off by playing God.

  “Did you like the sunset I created today?” he said. “Go ahead, answer.”

  She looked a little flustered. “Yes, it was beautiful,” she said, managing to smile.

  “Now ask about something specific you did and whether God approves of it. Go on.”

  “I don’t know. I can’t think.”

  “OK, OK,” the man said, holding up his hands. “You play God and I’ll ask you the human questions.”

  “All right,” she said.

  “Did you hear my prayer last night? It was windy where I lived, almost a storm, and I didn’t know if you heard it.”

  “Yes, I heard it. I hear everything, my son,” she added, smiling.

  “Go on. It’s your turn now.”

  “OK, OK. Did you enjoy the stars I made last night? Did you notice the patterns they formed over your head?”

  “When I remembered to look up I did, though it was just for a few seconds because I live so far away from them and I don’t know exactly what they’re for and why you made so many of them in the first place. You never tell.”

  “Good line,” the woman said, hoping her compliment might lighten his mood, which had turned serious again just when she was feeling encouraged.

  “Sometimes I wonder if my prayers bounce off them on their way to you—if your stars just bat them back and forth so they never get to you.”

  He looked at her and noticed a sour expression on her face. “Are you upset by my implicit criticism of you … my God,” he added, to be sure she understood.

  “No, no, my Phil, I understand and forgive everyone.”

  “Since I can’t do either, that puts me at a great disadvantage. Go on, it’s your turn again.”

  She looked at him uncertainly. “Did you enjoy the flowers I created that were in Tower Grove Park near the restaurant where you ate last night?”

  “I did enjoy the flowers,” he said, “as well as the stars, though they require two opposite motions of my head to see. You’ve made so many things but you’ve placed them too far apart and in so many directions I’d have to have a very flexible head, like an owl, to appreciate them all, or even a hundredth of them.”

  “One billionth of them would be more like it.”

  “Yes, my head would be very sore even noticing one trillionth of them. My head would be sore and useless and probably fall off.”

  “I wouldn’t let that happen to you, my son,” she said, adjusting her skirt again so it revealed more of her leg.

  “But you do let many people’s heads fall off all over the world. I watch this on my giant television and am puzzled.”

  He looked at her quickly and noticed her sour expression was back. Her name was Courtney, he suddenly remembered. He didn’t know why he kept forgetting it tonight—didn’t think he had on their first date. He could see she was a little high, too, which had originally been one of his goals, but now it didn’t matter. He was thinking of Melanie, the woman who left him. Courtney asked her question and he heard himself say, “I don’t think my game is a big hit with you.”

  “No, no, Phil, it’s really interesting. I’m just not very good at playing God or talking to Him either.”

  “Even though you’re a therapist?” he said.

  She forced a laugh then excused herself to use his bathroom, leaving him alone with his thoughts. When she returned he said, “I’m sorry for what I said about you being a therapist. It was just a little joke.”

  She made a disparaging little gesture with her left hand. “I know, it was a joke. It was funny, really.”

  “I respect you a lot for being a therapist. It’s very important work.”

  “Thank you,” she said, smile intact.

  “You know, I prayed about our date last night.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, I prayed that you’d like it and would want to see me again.”

  “Well, I did like it, but now it’s getting kind of late so I’m afraid I …”

  “Why didn’t you tell me before?” he screamed. She thought he might have pounded the table with his fists, too. It had all happened so fast—like a lightning flash—that she couldn’t be sure.

  “I’m sorry,” she mumbled.

  “Excuse me, do you suppose we could have a little sincerity here? Wasn’t that one of the points of the game we just played, the game that bored you so much?”

  “It didn’t bore me and I have been sincere,” she said, raising her own voice, although it trailed off by the end of her answer.

  “What I’m asking is, once you wanted to go home, why didn’t you say so? Why did you only bring it up after playing the game much longer than you wanted to? This, after all the questions I asked you before to try to find out what you liked or didn’t, trying to tell exactly what pleased you just so I could avoid this kind of humiliation.”

  “No, no,” she said, gesturing vaguely with her right hand.

  “No, no what?” he said. “You’ve got to explain better than that. You’re a therapist, for Christ’s sake. It’s your job to explain things, isn’t it?”

  “I enjoyed playing the game. I enjoyed all the other things we did tonight, too, so much that I didn’t realize about the time and then as soon as I did, I merely said I needed to go home to get some sleep, ’cause I have clients in the morning.”

  “And whose home are you in now?”

  She said nothing. She thought she’d made a diplomatic answer but it didn’t seem to have made any difference.

  “You’re in my home now, aren’t you, which I guess makes you my client.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “And a man’s home is his castle, am I right? I didn’t pluck that saying out of the air, did I?”

  “No, you didn’t pluck it out of the air,” she said softly, feeling that her lips were starting to quiver and wondering if he noticed because he was looking at her in a kind of inhuman way, like a camera recording everything.

  “I can stay a few more minutes,” she said.

  “I’ll say how long you can stay.”

  “I don’t understand what’s happening.”

  “Seems clear enough to me,” he said, staring directly at her.

  “I don’t understand why you’re talking this way to me—it’s scaring me.”

  “It’s a pity,” he said.

  “What? What is?”

  “That understanding so often lags behind activity, or to put it another way, a therapist understands but a God acts.”

  “OK. That’s interesting. All your ideas are, but now I really do have to go.” She said this in what she considered a fairly even tone of voice, though she felt she was shaking a little when she stood up and that he noticed it, of course, looking at her the way he was, like some kind of x-ray machine.

  She took a definitive step or two before he sprang up from his chair tiger-like and, grabbing her arms just below the shoulders, forced her down on the sofa. She let out a little half scream just before his hands fastened on her neck.

  “Be quiet. Don’t ever scream again in here or things will get a lot worse for you.”

  She said nothing. She was breathing heavily, felt for a moment that she might pass out. His hands were holding her firmly—not quite causing pain, but more like a relentless pressure.

  She looked at him closely. The physique that he’d bragged about on the Internet, that had attracted and surprised her on the first date by being almost exactly what he’d described, was now her enemy. He was a little older than her, but still in his thirties, and he was taller and of course much stronger, too.

  He released his hands and walked a little away from her.

 
“I’m sorry. I don’t know what I did to make you so mad but I’m sorry,” she said.

  “You tried to leave after all the reassurances and tawdry little compliments you threw my way.”

  She nodded, as if acknowledging a crime.

  “Even after I told you how I prayed about this date, how I bothered God Himself about it. That’s why I’m keeping you like this. Do you think you understand now?”

  “I understand,” she said.

  “You should understand. You’re a psychotherapist, aren’t you? Isn’t that what you told me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Doesn’t your training cover people like me? People who are really in pain.”

  She said nothing, and bowed her head. She suddenly felt exhausted and wondered if he’d somehow drugged her. She heard him walking across the room, but still kept her head down. Maybe he’ll just go into his room and let me leave, she thought. But his steps were getting closer now instead of further away.

  “I asked you a question,” he screamed, and her head jerked up and stared at him in disbelief. He was standing five to ten feet away from her, pointing a gun directly at her with one hand while gripping some kind of bag with the other.

  “Jesus,” she said.

  “No, it’s Phil. Jesus isn’t here now, Dr. Courtney, but I am.”

  “What? What are you doing?”

  “I’m commanding your attention. You were starting to fall asleep and I think therapists who fall asleep should lose their licenses, don’t you? At the very least they need to be woken up.”

  She gazed at him. He seemed much taller now—as if holding the gun had suddenly turned him into a giant.

  “Please put the gun away, please, so we can talk.”

  He shook his head no, so rapidly it was like a twitch. “I’ll tell you what I will do,” he said. “I’ll even things up a little.”

  “Please,” she said. She wasn’t aware that she was crying, and the tears falling down her face felt like another shock.

  “Let’s play a different game,” he said. “This one might interest you more than the last one.”

  He was withdrawing something from the bag, then in one fluid motion it came flying at her like a bat, landing beside her on the sofa. She let out a gasp and saw the light come back into his eyes.