What Comes Next

by John Katzenbach

  Jennifer lowered her hands from the chain and collar and started to stroke her bear. She whispered to Mister Brown Fur, “Just one step at a time. We’ll make it. I promise.”

  Her voice resounded in the room and she was surprised she had spoken out loud. For an instant she thought she had screamed it out. Then she imagined it was a whisper. It echoed around her, filling her ears with sound until a different noise penetrated her consciousness. Someone was at the door. She twitched, bending her head toward the noise.

  She bit down on her lip. She had not heard a key in a lock. She had not heard a deadbolt open. She tried to remember the other times the door had opened. Had she heard something different? No, she was sure, it was just the sound of the door handle being turned. What did that tell her?

  Before she had even the millisecond necessary to answer her own question, she heard the man’s voice.

  “Stand up. Remove your underwear.”

  Michael and Linda understood that Series #4 was not merely about sex, it was also about possession and control. The sexual component was critical and, they believed, the fulcrum on which the success of the show depended. Michael had spent hours studying every frame of the Hostel movies, which he thought had degenerated into bloodbaths that narrowed their audience down to teenagers who placed primary value on gore. But when the blood started spurting, the tension dissipated. Linda, for her part, considered those movies repulsive and instead had read, and then reread, virtually every book about Patty Hearst and the Symbionese Liberation Army she could lay hands on. What fascinated her was the way that the heiress had been altered psychologically into Tania, the erstwhile revolutionary. While they didn’t have any need for Number 4 to numbly take up an unloaded weapon and join in some half-baked bank robbery and feed-the-people revolutionary scheme, what Linda found fascinating was the way that Hearst had been driven into giving up her own identity. Isolation. Constant threat. Physical abuse. Sexual pressure. Each part had chipped away at who Patty Hearst had been and turned her into the blankest of pages that her captors had then exploited. These were elements she knew could be manipulated into their show. She simply assumed that her fascination was easily the same for viewers around the world.

  Of course, the more she felt compelled in this way, the crueler she became. She wanted to both possess Number 4 and hurt her. Sometimes, when Michael was asleep, she would crawl from the bed, wrap a blanket around her naked form, and go to the monitors and watch. The quickening in her heart was like those of the anonymous people watching. It was a different kind of intimacy. She would be aroused in a way that her lovemaking with Michael couldn’t duplicate. Her breath would come in short bursts. She had a fierce desire to touch herself, made even more electric by her refusal to do this.

  She denied herself so that when she gave in to Michael it was even more passionate. She knew this surprised him—the reckless abandon that she displayed—but he kept his mouth shut and performed.

  The Virginity Clock had been her idea.

  It was a simple addition. A timer joined to the outgoing feed. Viewers were asked to gamble on the exact time that Number 4 would be forced by her masked captors to give up her virginity. It was a little like an office betting pool, except that it wasn’t a football match or a basketball game being bet on. It was rape.

  There was no way of telling when it would happen. But it engaged the viewers in an interactive way. When the details of the clock and the way to post an online bet had first appeared on the site it had immediately boosted the e-mail traffic.

  Lots of people like a lottery, Linda thought.

  The key thing was to keep up a near-constant tease.

  As always, throughout Series #4, suggestion was paramount, mixed liberally with explicit actions. Linda was sensitive to the idea that they were required to keep the viewers from both boredom and climax. Everything was about working all the people watching into the fabric of Number 4’s story so that, in addition to lust, people became fascinated with twists and turns, as if the imprisonment of Number 4 were a soap opera that was real, and yet unreal, playing out in front of them.

  The Virginity Clock was just a small set change. It appeared in a corner across from the regular Series #4 duration clock, in red, steadily counting the hours that Jennifer had been in their control.

  “Good,” Michael said. His voice was rough-edged and deep. Number 4 was standing stiffly, self-consciously, at the end of the bed, like a soldier at attention except that her hands tried to cover her nakedness just as they had before, when she’d bathed.

  He knew this was involuntary on her part. He also knew that this coyness would electrify most of the viewers. They were so accustomed to seeing the porn industry’s eagerness to disrobe and be explicit that Number 4’s reluctance to show what they wanted to see would be titillating.

  “Hands to the side, Number Four,” he said coldly.

  He could see her shiver. He moved slightly to his left, just to be sure he wasn’t blocking the camera view, and much closer. He wanted Number 4 to sense his presence. Maybe even feel his breath against her cheek. He trusted Linda to keep moving the other camera shots around. She wasn’t as good as he was with the cinematography but she knew enough to keep changing angles.

  Caress her with the camera, Michael thought. He was trying to send this message to Linda and he imagined he was successful. When it came to these things, they functioned on an intuitive wavelength.

  “Look straight ahead.”

  Number 4 did as she was told. She was biting down on her lip. He hoped that Linda got a close-up of that.

  “We have some more questions, Number Four,” he began. She didn’t nod in agreement but he saw her head turn slightly toward him.

  “Tell us, Number Four, what did you imagine your first time would be like?”

  As he had suspected, the question took her off guard.

  Her mouth opened slightly, as if words were leaping forth but stopping at her lips.

  He prompted her.

  “Did you think you would fall in love? Did you think it would be romantic? Moonlight on the beach on some warm summer night? In front of a burning fireplace, in some cozy cabin, the winter weather closed away?”

  He smiled. The imagery had been Linda’s idea.

  “Or maybe some sort of rough coupling in the back of a car? Or at a party surrounded by other teenagers, where you give in because of insistence or booze or maybe some drug?”

  Number 4 didn’t reply.

  “Tell us, Number Four. We want to know what you imagined it would be like.”

  “I never, I didn’t . . .” she started hesitantly.

  “Of course you did, Number Four,” Michael growled. He installed as much menace in his voice as he could. “Everyone does. Everyone imagines. Only the reality is never like the fantasy. But we want to know, Number Four. What did you dream about?”

  He watched as she stiffened.

  “I thought I would fall in love,” she said slowly.

  Michael smiled beneath the mask he wore.

  “Tell us, Number Four. Tell us about what you think of love.”

  Jennifer told herself, It’s not me standing naked in front of the world. It’s Number 4. I don’t know who she is. She’s someone else. Someone different. I’m still me. This is someone else talking.

  Then she thought: Give him what he wants.

  She began to lie.

  “There was a boy in my school, his name was—”

  Michael stepped forward rapidly and grabbed her chin. His grip was taut and he squeezed savagely.

  Jennifer inhaled sharply. She froze. She could feel the pressure on her jaw tightening. It was not so much pain as the suddenness of his motion that startled and frightened her. But as he squeezed the hurt began. She could see colors behind her blindfold, a kaleidoscope of reds and whites and fin
ally a black, deep hurt.

  “No. No names, Number Four. No places. No little details that you think someone might hear that might cause someone to come looking for you. I will not tell you again, Number Four. The next time I will really hurt you.”

  She could sense his strength. It was like having a dark thundercloud hovering over her.

  She nodded agreement. She could feel the hand grasping her face slowly release, and the feeling was restored throughout her body. It was as if she slowly became aware again that she was naked, reminded by the dropping away of pain.

  “Continue, Number Four. But cautiously.”

  She could sense that he had not moved more than a foot or so back. He was still hovering over her. She did not want to be hit again. So she invented.

  “He was tall and skinny. And he had a goofy smile that I really liked. He liked action movies and was real good in English class. I think he wrote poetry and he would wear a funny hat in the winter with flaps that came down over his ears, so he looked a little like an elephant without a trunk.”

  The man laughed briefly.

  “Good,” he said. “And you imagined what, Number Four?”

  “I thought if he asked me out, I would let him kiss me after the first date.”

  “Yes. And?”

  “And if he asked me out again, I would kiss him again and maybe let him feel my breasts.”

  She heard the man slide closer. He was speaking in a soft, whispery voice, almost as if his anger had fled, replaced by something only the two of them could share.

  “Yes, tell me more, Number Four. What would happen on the third date?”

  Jennifer was staring straight ahead. She knew she was facing the camera. She suspected when she had used the word breasts that the camera had focused on hers. Except, she insisted to herself, not mine. Number 4’s.

  Behind the blindfold, Jennifer squinted, trying to picture some teenage boy who didn’t exist.

  No one had ever asked her out. And other than a spin-the-bottle party when she was twelve, no one had ever wanted to kiss her. At least, no one that she knew about. It had made her think sometimes that she wasn’t pretty. It had never occurred to her that the opposite might be true, that she was too pretty and too different and too rebellious, and that all these things were intimidating and had driven her classmates toward easier challenges.

  She invented. She drew upon every presleep fantasy. Movies. Books. Anything that had an easy-to-remember romance.

  “And if he called again, and I could get things right . . . a place where we could be alone and it was quiet . . . I thought we might . . .”—she ­hesitated—“go all the way.”

  “Go on, Number Four.”

  “I wanted it to be in a room. A real bedroom. Not on a couch or in a car or in some basement. I wanted it to be slow. I thought it would be like a present I was giving. I wanted it to be special. And I didn’t want him to run away afterward. I didn’t want it to be scary.”

  The man moved closer to her. She could sense him maneuvering about. When his fingers touched her arm she nearly screamed. She was taut with terror.

  “But it won’t be like that, not now, will it, Number Four? This boy from your school, he’s not here, is he? And do you think he will ever know what a treat he just missed out on?”

  She didn’t reply. She felt his fingertips just glassing over her skin. They circumscribed her body, as if drawing attention to each part. The shoulders. Down her back and across her buttocks. Around her waist and pausing on the flat of her stomach. Then lower. She shuddered. With someone she loved, Jennifer knew it would have been erotic. With the man, she could feel darkness shading her. She twitched and had to fight off the desire to shrink back.

  “Do you want to get it over with, Number Four?”

  “I don’t know . . .”

  The man repeated his question word for word: “Do you want to get it over with, Number Four?”

  Jennifer hesitated. Would yes invite him to grab her right then? Throw her down and force himself on her? Would no be an insult? It might just bring about the exact same result. She breathed in sharply, holding her breath as if choking herself might help her to see what the right answer was, if there was one.

  She twitched through her shoulders. Afterward what would be left? Would she have any value?

  “Answer my question, Number Four.”

  She took a breath.

  “No,” she said.

  He was still whispering. “You said you wanted it to be special.”

  She nodded. The man continued speaking in low tones filled with restrained hate, not love.

  “It will be. Just not special in the way you thought.”

  He laughed. Then she sensed him stepping back.

  “Soon,” he said. “Think about that. Very soon. It could happen any minute. And it will be hard, Number Four. It will be nothing like you ever imagined.”

  And then she heard him cross the room.

  Within a second another sound. The door opening and closing.

  She remained standing, still naked. She waited for what seemed like several minutes, not moving. Then, when the silence built up around her into a scream, she breathed out slowly and groped around for her underwear. She pulled them on and returned to the bed. She could feel sweat dripping down under her arms. It wasn’t the heat that caused this. It was the threat. She found her bear and whispered to him, “This isn’t happening to us, Mister Brown Fur. It’s happening to someone else. Jennifer is still your friend. Jennifer hasn’t changed.”

  She wished she could actually believe this. She understood that something was in balance, teetering back and forth. A seesaw of identity.

  She did not know if she could keep her equilibrium.

  The room beyond the blindfold must have been spinning. She felt dizzy and flushed, as if every place the man’s hands had swept over her had left red striations and scars.

  She pulled Mister Brown Fur close.

  Fight what you can fight, Jennifer. The rest doesn’t mean anything.

  She nodded her head, as if she agreed with herself.

  Then she insisted deep into her core: Whatever happens, it doesn’t mean anything, it doesn’t mean anything, it doesn’t mean anything. Only one thing is important: stay alive.

  32

  Adrian spent much of the weekend locked in his house, not by any deadbolt or keyed chain but by his illness. He barely slept, and when he did it was unsettled by vibrant dreams. Much of the time he paced erratically from room to room, pausing only to speak with Cassie, who did not answer him, or to plead with Tommy to emerge so that he could embrace his son once again. That thought kept racing through his head one more time one more time one more time but, despite his entreaties, his son remained silent and invisible.

  When he spied himself in the mirror, he thought he was seeing a shadow. He was dressed in a torn pajama top and faded jeans, as if he’d been caught halfway between dressing or undressing. His hair was matted with sweat. His chin was stubbled with gray. He felt like he was trapped in the midst of an argument, that there was a loud and insistent part of him telling him to forget things, while a different half insisted he keep his head clear, control his thoughts, and manage his memories. One side was yelling and screaming while the other was speaking calmly, quietly. Every so often this reasonable side of his personality would remind him to eat something, to go to the toilet, brush his teeth, shower, shave—all the small routines of life that everyone thinks are normal traffic, and which Adrian knew were becoming increasingly hard and discouragingly complicated.

  He wanted to shift responsibility to his wife. Cassie was always good at remembering every appointment for the two of them. She had a terrific recall for the names of people met at cocktail parties. She remembered dates, places, the weather, and conversations with a ste
nographer’s accuracy. He had always marveled at her ability to summon up what he considered the most trivial aspects of life instantly. His own imagination was cluttered by so many measurements taken during lab experiments, and by words that he might try to string together into a poem. It was as if he had no space left inside his brain to remember the name of the adjunct faculty member’s wife, whom he’d met at a year-end department barbecue, or when to change the oil in the Volvo.

  Tommy had developed his mother’s ability to summon up names and places effortlessly. It had helped him with his camera work. This shot was taken at this speed, with this shutter setting, with this lighting. He was encyclopedic about his craft.

  Either one of them, he thought, would have been better searching for Jennifer. Each would have been adding details together, stringing observations into facts. They would be like Brian, able to compile small things into a larger picture.

  He was envious. They were all better detectives than he was.

  Adrian once again looked hard across the space to the favorite Queen Anne chair where Cassie should have been but wasn’t.

  He was only vaguely aware that his house was showing the same wear that he was. He knew the dishes were piling up in the sink. He knew soiled clothes were stacked in the laundry. He knew the vacuum cleaner and the mop were calling out to him, although he didn’t exactly know what sort of language appliances might use. Some sort of disembodied metallic voice, like an announcement in a train or bus station.

  Adrian told himself that he had to keep his mind functioning, and so, after abruptly standing up in the center of his living room and shouting, Look, damn it, Cassie, you need to help me remember this crap! he located a broom and started sweeping. He couldn’t find a dustpan so he pushed some of the debris under the carpet. This made him laugh, and he sensed his wife’s disapproval. A ghostly nagging Oh, Audie, how could you seemed to echo around him, but she didn’t appear, and he felt like a young child who had managed to get away with some small infraction of the household rules.