Reclamation

by Gregory L. Beam

  “Relax,” says Dresden, “Stanley’s taking care of her.” Somehow, this doesn’t make John feel relaxed. Then again, at least she’s not with this creep, who strikes him as more of a loose cannon than the big guy.

  “Now—” Dresden pulls a chair over to the desk and sits across from John “—the reason we put you in separate rooms is that we need some information, and it’s critical that it be independently verified by the two of you. So I’m gonna ask you to write some things down, and Stanley’s gonna ask your lady to write the same things down. Then we’re gonna compare notes. If both pieces of paper have the same answers, then we have no problem. But if any of the answers disagree… well…” He makes a little clicking noise with his mouth. There’s something puzzling about the way the guy speaks—the intellectual flights, the $2 words, his use of the subjunctive (“that it be?”). It doesn’t seem to square with the rest of his behavior and appearance.

  Dresden produces a sheet of paper and a pen. He slides them in front of John. He nods in the direction of the pen, and John—his hands bound in front of him this time—picks it up and clicks it open. Dresden takes a scrap of paper from his pocket and reads from it.

  “Item number one—” He taps his finger on the table. “Go ahead and write the numbers down, make it easier for me to follow later.”

  John writes a ‘1.’ near the top of the page.

  “Item number one: your full name, first, middle, last. Do not abbreviate.”

  He writes ‘Jonathan Anthony Lavando’ next to the ‘1.’

  “Anthony,” says Dresden. “I got a cousin named Anthony. He’s a fucking loser. Nothing like you. Item number two: your wife’s full name—same deal, no abbreviations. Include her maiden name in parentheses.”

  John writes ‘2.’ and then ‘Valerie Elizabeth Ann Lavando (Muldoon).’

  “All right… Item three: your social security number.”

  John writes a ‘3.’ followed by the nine-digit number.

  “Item four: your wife’s social security number.”

  John hesitates.

  “You know it?”

  “Yes, I know it.”

  “Go on then.”

  John writes the number. Should he have said he didn’t know it? Dresden might have believed him. He might have withheld that piece of information. Too late now.

  “Item five: your mother’s maiden name.”

  John writes the name.

  “Item six: your father’s maiden name.”

  John looks up at Dresden.

  “That was a joke. Jesus, Doc, you gotta lighten up.”

  The next dozen or so items are mostly trivial—the name of the street John grew up on, the first concert he attended—the kind of personal facts that websites use for security questions. A few of the questions about Val he doesn’t know the answer to, like the name of her kindergarten teacher. A couple of them he is surprised that he does know. (The name of her first pet? Mr. Pigums.) Next to one of his responses, he writes a question mark, explaining that he isn’t 100% sure.

  “Cross it out then,” says Dresden. “We only want the information you’re sure about.”

  John draws a line through his answer. He thinks. There may be an opportunity here. Some of this stuff there’s no way Val would know about him. For those items, he could give false answers.

  But what would be the point? His neck is still throbbing from its encounter with the butt of Dresden’s revolver—God only knows what he’ll do if he catches him in a lie. It’s not worth endangering their safety to protect their information. It would only be worth the risk if it might help get them out of this. If, for instance, he could use one of his answers to send a message to Val…

  When they’ve gone through the whole list—twenty-six items in all—Dresden takes the sheet of paper and rises. He’s halfway to the door before he wheels around and comes back for the laptop. “Almost forgot this,” he says. He chuckles and goes out of the room, leaving the door ajar.

  John hears the two men conferring in the hallway. He can’t make out what they’re saying, but they sound agitated, their words punctuated by vulgar outbursts from Dresden. John’s pulse begins to tick upward.

  “Go ask her!” says Dresden.

  A moment later, Dresden is back in the room, charging through the door with a mad-dog look on his face. He shuts the door and crosses over to the desk. He lays the paper down but remains standing.

  “One of these answers doesn’t match your wife’s. My associate is in there with her now, asking if she would like to revise any of her responses. I’m gonna ask you the same. Now… maybe this little discrepancy is an honest mistake. Heck, I hope it is, because I want very much to believe that you’re dealing with us in good faith. It’ll make this whole process go a lot smoother for everyone involved. If, however, I find out that you’re deliberately attempting to sabotage our efforts… that would make me angry. I’ve got a bit of an anger problem, in case you couldn’t tell. My ex told me I oughta see someone about it, but, you know, that’s another fuckin’ thing I can’t afford, so…” He sets the tip of a bony finger on the paper and slides it slowly across the desk. “Now, I want you to take a real good look at what you wrote here, and I want you to make damn sure you’re answering with total candidness.”

  John picks up the paper and looks it over. The page is shaking, growing damp with the sweat forming in his palms. He looks over his answers.

  “Well?”

  “Um…” John swallows. “I might have… number seventeen—the street Val grew up on. It might be—”

  Dresden makes a harsh buzzer sound. “Try again.”

  John’s heart is racing. His breathing is unsteady.

  “You seem nervous, Doc. You all right?”

  “What you’re seeing is a normal physiological response to a threat.”

  “Oh, now,” says Dresden, leaning over the table, “there’s no need to feel threatened, Doc—as long as you’re honest with me.”

  John takes a deep breath, trying to keep a cool demeanor. It’s possible that Dresden is bluffing, but he doesn’t think so. Still, he was so sure that the two false answers he gave would be safe, that Val couldn’t possibly know such obscure facts about his life—Item sixteen: the name of his kindergarten teacher; item eighteen: the name of his first sports coach. It appears that one of those factoids somehow stuck in her memory, catching him in a lie that probably wouldn’t have been worth the telling even if it had worked.

  What the hell was he thinking? Why had he even tried this gambit? He was so upset about missing his chance in the guest bedroom—he felt like he had to do something. Well, now he’s done something. And it might get them killed.

  The question is, which of the two names did Val know? Or was it both? The safest thing would be to admit both untruths. But then he would risk disclosing the message encoded in the answers, and he sure as hell doesn’t want to do that.

  He takes another deep breath. “My kindergarten teacher,” he says. “Her name was Mrs. Harrison.”

  Dresden flinches, almost imperceptibly, then says flatly, “Is that all?”

  John nods. “I… I’m pretty sure I’ve used that as the security question on some websites. I was hoping to throw you off.”

  Dresden looks hard at John for a second. Then he picks up the sheet of paper, now dimpled with John’s fingerprints, and marches out of the room, closing the door behind him.

  The air goes out of John’s lungs. It feels like the first time he’s exhaled in days. He puts his head in his hands, kneading his brow with his fingers, beating at his forehead with the butt of his hand. How could he have been so stupid? What made him think the men would show Val his answers? Or supposing they did, that she would be able to pick up on the obscure message embedded in them: “16. Mrs. Winchester… 18. Mr. Dresser.”

  The Winchester shotgun, packed away in a dresser in the attic. Big Nat’s gift to John on their tenth anniversary.

  He goes out with it so rarely that Val seems s
hocked whenever she sees it. She’s asked him to get rid of it a couple of times, but John has refused, saying it would be an insult to her father’s memory. So it has remained in the attic, against Val’s objections. For a long time, the kids didn’t even know he owned a gun. Matthew thought it was awesome when he found out about it. Jacob seemed quietly disturbed.

  He’d wanted to remind her that it was there, in case one of them should have the opportunity to get to the attic. It was an idiotic ploy. But at least the gun’s still there. He hasn’t given that away.

  Dresden comes back into the room a few minutes later, this time bringing John’s laptop with him and sporting a mischievous grin. He sets the computer on the table and flips it open in front of John. On the screen is a dialogue box, the kind his kids had used to chat with their friends when they were younger. John looks at the dialogue box, then at Dresden.

  “What do you want me to do?” he says.

  “That ain’t up to me,” says Dresden. “That’s up to him.”

  John gives Dresden a confused look, then hears a ping from the computer. A message has appeared in the dialogue box: “hello john.” The sender’s name is ‘frogger13.’ John looks up at Dresden.

  “What am I supposed to do?”

  Dresden reads the message on the screen. “Well, I’m no doctor, but in a situation such as this, I just might say ‘hello’ back.”

  John raises his hands awkwardly to the keyboard. With his wrists bound, the best he can do is pluck out one letter at a time. He types, “hello.” He clicks return, and the message goes through.

  A typing icon comes up, indicating that frogger13 is composing a response. A moment later, it comes through: “someones been a very naughty boy from what i hear…”

  Before John can respond, another message appears: “have you been a naughty boy john?”

  John stares at the screen, eyes and mouth agape. Is this guy for real?

  Another message: “…?”

  John sighs and types out, “yes.”

  frogger13: yes thats what i hear

  frogger13: i hear youve been fibbing

  frogger13: trying to pull one over on my man here. thats not a very nice thing to do not nice at all

  frogger13: its a good thing im such an understanding person or you might be in very big trouble…

  John thinks and then types, “who are you?”

  frogger13: what do you mean who am i? who do you think i am? cant you f’ing read? im frogger-f’ing-13!

  frogger13: bitch

  John shakes his head. This is becoming surreal.

  John: what do you want?

  frogger13: i thought my man made that clear

  frogger13: didnt he read you the declaration?

  John: yes. so this is your movement?

  frogger13: no one owns this movement

  frogger13: this is the PEOPLES movement

  frogger13: dont you understand that?

  …

  frogger13: dont you?

  John: yes.

  frogger13: all right good

  frogger13: now like i said, were gonna be lenient about this first infraction

  frogger13: but you must understand that there are limits to my generosity

  frogger13: if you lie to my men again ill have them cut off your balls and microwave ‘em then feed ‘em to that whore-ass wife of yours.

  John blanches.

  frogger13: got it?

  John: yes

  frogger13: good

  frogger13: now i have something to say to dresden - tell him to look at the screen.

  frogger13: but you keep reading too johnny boy - youll like this!

  John turns the screen so that Dresden can see it. “He says he has a message for you.” Dresden looks.

  frogger13: take out your knife

  Dresden pulls a utility knife from his back pocket.

  frogger13: open the blade

  Dresden opens the blade.

  frogger13: cut your arm

  Without hesitation, Dresden drags the blade over the back of his forearm, drawing rivulets of bright red blood. He holds the arm out, clenching his fist to make the blood pump harder from his veins. John can’t help wanting to bandage the cut, so ingrained is his propensity to heal.

  frogger13: now cut his ties

  Dresden grabs John’s hands and yanks them up, cutting the plastic tie so forcefully that John’s sure he’ll take one of his fingers with it.

  frogger13: feet too

  Dresden kneels down and frees John’s legs.

  frogger13: now leave

  Dresden stands for a moment looking at John, his eyes pure ice, before going out of the room. John eyes the thin trail of blood on the floor, disappearing beneath the closed door. The screen pings.

  frogger13: now you know my men are loyal

  frogger13: they do what i tell them to do

  frogger13: so you know i mean it about cutting off your balls and feeding them to your whore-ass wife

  frogger13: if i tell them to cut off your balls and feed them to your whore-ass wife you know what theyre gonna do?

  Dresden is gone. John is alone with the computer.

  frogger13: you know what theyre gonna do?

  He’s alone with the computer. John clicks on the Safari icon on the dock. The browser opens but displays only an error message, saying he’s not on-line. Damn it.

  frogger13: helllloooooooooo….

  John: Yes. I know.

  He scans the room, looking for anything else that might be useful. He has to assume that the men are just on the other side of the door. Even if Dresden has gone to bandage his arm, the big guy is out there and could come back at any moment. Is there something in the room he could use as a weapon?

  frogger13: what? what are they gonna do?

  John: They’ll do what you tell them to do.

  frogger13: and that is…

  John’s hands tremble as he types

  John: Cut off my balls and feed them to my wife.

  frogger13: your WHORE-ASS wife. WHORE-ASS wife. the whore-ass is important

  frogger13: and dont forget the microwave - not gonna serve ‘em raw

  frogger13: that would be unsanitary

  frogger13: now put it all together

  frogger13: and whatever you do, dont leave out the whore-ass

  frogger13: thats the best part

  John: If you tell them to, they’ll cut off my balls, microwave them, and feed them to my whore-ass wife.

  frogger13: oooo… i might have to tell her you said that

  frogger13: thats no way to talk about the mother of your children

  frogger13: she might need a shoulder to cry on after hearing what you called her

  frogger13: we’ll see how generous im feeling later

  frogger13: in the meantime weve got other matters to attend to

  John: What matters?

  frogger13: in just a bit my man dresden is gonna ask you some questions

  frogger13: about a lawsuit

  frogger13: a lawsuit that woulda been brought against your company if it wasnt for a pesky little arbitration clause.

  frogger13: but first we need some insurance

  John: What do you mean?

  frogger13: my team is working on adjusting your finances as we speak - and once we get some information on that law suit youll be truly screwed

  frogger13: all we need is an insurance policy to make sure you wont go crying about it like a little bitch later on - retracting the things you told us

  frogger13: supposing you make it out of here that is

  frogger13: we need to know that ur gonna keep quiet

  frogger13: so heres how were gonna play this

  frogger13: step one - take your pants off

  …

  John: Okay.

  John figures it would take about ten seconds for him to remove his pants—that’s how long he’s got to search for something. He rifles through the drawers of the desk, hoping to find a
letter opener or a pair of scissors—anything long and sharp.

  He turns and sees the bookshelf. There are a couple of bookends made of solid iron, heavy and hard enough to crack bone.

  The computer pings. He looks up at the screen.

  frogger13: I CAN SEE U

  Of course he can. There’s a surveillance camera in the corner of the room, as there is in almost every room of the house. John spins around and looks up at the discreet little black eye staring down at him. They must have found a way to hack the feed. Or perhaps they got into the command center in the basement. This frogger13 character might be writing to him from inside the house. That would explain how he’s able to use this dialogue box while the browser won’t work. He’s set up some kind of local network. Jacob used to talk about this sort of thing during his electronic music phase.

  John returns his fingers to the keyboard. “I’m sorry,” he types.

  frogger13: just for that…

  A few seconds go by.

  John: What?

  frogger13: shhh…. listen - you dont want to miss this.

  A cry comes from down the hall. It’s Val. She sounds like she’s been hit. John trembles in terror and regret. First the false answers and now this. Is he trying to get them killed?

  frogger13: u know for a doctor ur kinda dense

  frogger13: dumbass doctor and his whore-ass wife

  frogger13: now take ur fucking pants off

  John obliges this time.

  frogger13: tighty-whities - huh

  frogger13: i woulda pegged you as a boxer guy

  frogger13: take those off too

  John removes his briefs. He’s naked from the waist down.

  frogger13: you been swimming in cold water or something?

  frogger13: look at that dimply little thing!

  frogger13: im kidding buddy - thats a totally respectable piece of hardware

  frogger13: nice girth.

  John’s head spins. This guy is sounding less like the leader of a large-scale political movement by the second.

  frogger13: alright now sit in front of the computer

  John sits.

  frogger13: open up the browser

  John clicks on the Safari icon again and sees the same error message as before.

  frogger13: copy and paste this url into your address bar -

  What follows looks to John like a random string of letters, numbers, and symbols. He highlights and copies the text, then pastes it into the address bar. Nothing happens for a second. Then a webpage appears—a grey background with an image of a three-pronged pitchfork rising out of flames at the center of the page. Beneath the graphic, there is a small icon in the shape of an envelope.