Hooked

by Matt Richtel

  “Ease off, Ed,” Danny said. “Aravelo was a blight. Like his brother.”

  “Brothers in arms,” Velarde responded. “Besides, don’t forget who’s paying your medical bills.”

  Whitney Houston came on the radio singing “The Greatest Love of All,” and Velarde started to hum along. He steadied a needle against my neck. I could feel him about to press it in again. I winced in anticipation and realized the extent of my fear; Samantha had placed at least a dozen needles all over my backside. He could pierce my lower back, the inside of my elbow, the tender flesh behind my knee. I felt woozy, like I might pass out.

  “Tell me what I need to know,” he said. “Or you can take the eternal swim in the Pacific with your girlfriend.”

  I couldn’t muster a response.

  “We’ll get there, Edward,” Danny said, calming his partner. He loosened the grip on my feet, but held them tight enough to prevent me from getting up.

  “Listen, Nathaniel,” he said. “I tried to get you to cooperate. But these guys—they don’t have a lot of patience.”

  He was the good cop again.

  “We just ran out of time. And they were getting pretty angry with all the poking around you were doing.”

  “Danny, tell me—what do they want? What does Glenn Kindle want? Give a dying man a little parting gift.”

  He brushed past me.

  “So if you’ll just help us out and get us that fairy’s laptop back, we can all go about our business.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Hold on. Let me catch my breath.”

  I felt his grip loosen. Was there any possibility of escape?

  “Aravelo—they didn’t reopen the investigation into him,” I said. “You made that up, Danny.”

  I felt him cuff my leg to the table.

  “That’s right. I needed to create some trust between us.”

  “Yeah, okay, you needed information. I get it. A little misdirection is one thing,” I said. “But this isn’t you.”

  Danny let go of my right leg. I yanked at it and got two inches off the table before the metal bit into me.

  “This is useless. Have at him,” Danny said.

  “What could she possibly be thinking?” Velarde said, as Whitney Houston was hitting the big key change in the final chorus. “How could she marry a jackass like Bobby Brown?”

  I tried one more appeal to Danny.

  “You’re a compassionate man, Sergeant. All that stuff about your father. Was this the son he raised?”

  He’d talked at length about his relationship to his ailing dad. A torturer didn’t do that, did he?

  “It’ll make him feel better to get the money for his new liver,” he said, then added quietly, “I’ve made up my mind.”

  “Enough,” Velarde said. “I’m giving you one more chance. We’ll put you to sleep, just like the waitress.”

  “Erin?”

  “I did you a favor with her,” Velarde said offhandedly. “They found some nasty shit at her apartment.”

  “What are you talking about? It was planted, right?”

  “You’re still way behind the eight ball, buddy boy.”

  “What the hell are you talking about!?”

  I started struggling again, now maniacally. Velarde let out a rodeo whoop. I realized he must still be screwing with my head about Erin, just before the pain began to set in. He put his thumb onto the needle. I took a flyer.

  “Wait. Is this more fun than killing lab rats?”

  “Quiet down, Sherlock.”

  “You burned down the lab. You destroyed the evidence of that . . . freaky neurology experiment,” I said, fishing. “You killed those poor animals and torched the place. You are a crazy . . . fuck.”

  If any part of me still doubted how dire my straits were, the denial was quickly disappearing.

  “Interesting theory,” he said.

  I felt the needle start to sink into my skin.

  “You’re right about one thing. I’m a crazy fuck. Now, where is the laptop?”

  I gripped the sides of the legs of the table, bracing for pain. I found my mind wandering—to the hero algorithm. I calculated. Was there any way to save myself, or should I go down in a hail of false bravado?

  I could tell them I’d given the laptop to Bullseye. They’d probably then hunt him down, and bounce anvils off his head until he confessed to the computer’s whereabouts. As a bonus, I figured once they got what they needed out of him and me, they’d bleed us both.

  Alternatively, I could play tough, or mute. I could spare Bullseye and probably Samantha. Besides, how many chances do you get to be a hero?

  From the radio, the sultry voice of Norah Jones filled the room. Just as Danny joined the act. I felt him press gently on a needle stuck into the fleshy part of my calf.

  “Danny, there are half a dozen people who know I’ve been talking to you,” I said. “You’ll be the first place they look.”

  Velarde tightened his grip on my neck. I fought for air.

  “Idle threats.” Danny sounded tired and resigned.

  “Please.”

  “Last chance, Vance.”

  It was hopeless.

  I said, “I can’t.” As much bravery as I could muster.

  I felt the pressure lessen on my neck. Velarde leaned in close. “I warned you.”

  I gripped the sides of the table in preparation. I was not disappointed. Velarde found his leverage on the needle poked into my neck. Then, finally, it came. Full force. He shoved down like he was digging for China. I wondered if he’d found my spinal column, in an odd moment of intellectual curiosity. And a surreal, unspoken plea: Why couldn’t I be killed to Springsteen?

  Then white-hot agony. Just before I passed out, Velarde removed the needle. The relief was instant. Consuming.

  “I’m just getting a better grip,” Velarde said. “Here comes the fat lady.”

  I let my mind flow free. I indeed imagined a lady. A beautiful, dark-skinned angel. Annie. I reached to her, looked into her eyes, and searched them for an answer.

  When I felt the needle enter my body, I opened my throat and let out a wild cry. Nothing came out. Nothing was left.

  In the far distance, I heard a click, clack, click of an ethereal Peace Train. Underneath its wail, a voice, “I’ll finish him,” and the sound of a metallic click. The last thing I heard was a series of pops. Commotion. Then blackness.

  40

  Death is a blonde with a gun. She looks familiar.

  Soft light surrounds her. It attaches to her skin like bread crust. It bends and warps when she rubs salve on your wounds. When she puts the pill on your tongue. When she rights your limp body.

  She says, “This will help you sleep.”

  Maybe everyone sees the same vision.

  Then she leaves. But not before she puts something in your lap.

  A cell phone. Even in death, a phone.

  41

  The pharmaceutical industry has figured out sleep. It’s dreams they can’t do a damn thing about.

  Sleeping pills do a great job of shutting down the brain; unfortunately, that’s not the essence of good rest. When dolphins sleep, they shut down half their brain while the other half stays alert. It’s partly because in the ocean the predators work taxicab hours; it’s also so the dolphins can play. So too, our brains get refreshed by the surreal romps of our deepest journeys into sleep.

  I had descended into a dreamless, timeless place as bleak as death. But you don’t wake up from death, or, if you do, it probably doesn’t hurt as much as the pain I felt when I found myself in the fetal position on the bloodstained floor of Samantha’s studio.

  I peeled open an eye. The heavy grog of hangover encircled my brain. Suddenly pierced by a shooting pain when I shifted the weight from arm to back. “Holy Mother Shit,” I groaned.

  I fell back on my stomach, turned my head to the right, and said, “Still ticking.”

  Images suddenly returned in chunks.

  Gunshots. Velarde fa
lling. A sandal, beneath a jeans-clad leg. A cool hand—turning my face to the side. Hazel eyes, exploring. Then blackness.

  Did the blonde angel subdue Velarde and Danny? Did she kill them? I put my elbows on Samantha’s table. I breathed deeply, sucking in the sweet, stale air of combat. More images came this time, held together with synaptic rope. The woman cleaned and sterilized my wounds, removed my manacles, gave me pills. I told her I’d seen her before. In response, she’d handed me a cell phone.

  “We’ll call you,” she said. “Rest.”

  We. Who was we? Who was she?

  I looked on the floor at a mobile phone. A perfectly innocuous Motorola phone, flipped open. Was I expecting a super-secret spy cell phone? “Damn,” I said in the direction of the phone. “I’m going to have to bend over to pick you up.”

  I reached left hand over right shoulder to diagnose the damage administered by Weller and Velarde. The muscle movement brought a kaleidoscope of pain, but I could move without collapsing.

  I felt the spot near the base of my neck, where Velarde had gone to town. It was covered with a piece of gauze, taped inexpertly to my back and neck. I took stock. I wasn’t suffering blood loss and hadn’t taken a hit to any major organ. Someone had sterilized my wounds. Besides, I thought, Samantha probably had sterilized the needles to begin with. The wounds wouldn’t kill me, I thought. I had probably passed out not from imminent threat of death or even shock, merely from pain.

  I slowly bent over, picked up the cell phone and studied it. Looking for . . . I wasn’t sure what, nothing in particular, which is precisely what I found.

  The phone was turned on. On the display, the clock read 6:15 p.m. Could it be that I’d been knocked out for only two hours? Or was it two hours plus one full day? I closed the phone and reached to put it in my pocket. Until I realized I was wearing boxer shorts—no pants. Where were they?

  In the corner, in a pile, along with my wallet and phone. Right where I’d left them all when I undressed to get acupuncture.

  What had happened to Samantha? And to Erin? Didn’t Velarde say that she was knocked out. Or worse?

  With adrenaline trumping pain, I donned pants and shirt. I opened the door to Samantha’s small studio. Outside of it was an anteroom—a small waiting area where Samantha’s clients would read yoga magazines on an overstuffed orange chair, and where she would sit, meditate, and wait for them to cook.

  As I peeked past the door, I braced for the worst. I felt another burst of adrenaline. There sat Samantha on the big orange chair, her head hung to the side, eyes shut.

  “Samantha!”

  She didn’t stir.

  I stepped toward her. I grabbed her wrist, felt for a pulse, and found a strong one.

  “Give me five more minutes, Bullseye,” Samantha slurred quietly.

  She seemed to be in a heavy drug sleep, the likes of which I’d probably been in minutes before. I desperately wanted to shake her awake and ask her what she’d seen, but I didn’t think I’d get much useful information. I also thought it better to let her sleep. I put my hand on her cheek.

  That’s when I noticed the key. It was dangling from a string around Samantha’s neck. I didn’t remember Sam ever carrying a key that way. I reached forward and supported the key in my fingers. From its logo, I could see that it belonged to a Ford.

  I walked to the front door of the studio—a mere three steps given the office’s diminutive size. I looked out onto the dirt parking lot of the industrial complex. It was, as it had been when I’d arrived, empty, with one exception: a Ford Explorer, evidently belonging to the key dangling from my ring finger.

  It was a curiosity, then a sudden source of anger. Who the fuck was playing with me, and why?

  “What the hell?”

  The answer, once again, came from my pants. The mystery phone was ringing.

  As I opened the flip phone, I remembered the strangest feeling. Déjà vu. I felt like I’d been in that exact moment a thousand times before. I tried to shake off the sensation, and put the phone to my ear.

  “Hello,” I said tentatively. “This is Nat.”

  “Turtle,” said my formerly dead true love. “I’ve missed you so much.”

  42

  I’d had reunions with Annie before. Often on a bench in Golden Gate Park. I would sit with a bag of sunflower seeds. One seed for me. One for the squirrels. Two for me. Two for the squirrels.

  I was the picture of contemplation, pity, and piety. I exuded a kind of contrition—like if Annie were watching from the afterlife she would know I was living with the proper cool reflection of one who has lost a true love.

  But she wasn’t in the afterlife. She was fifty yards away and walking toward me, her smile broadening with each closing centimeter. Even when we locked eyes, she wouldn’t run. I would finally stand. But wait too. Savoring. Then, at last, she wouldn’t contain her legs. She’d sprint into my arms.

  “This isn’t possible,” I’d whisper into her hair.

  “I’m here, Turtle,” she’d say. “It’s really me.”

  I’d bury my head in her hair. Then she’d laugh. We’d kiss while the squirrels stood on hind legs and applauded with their paws.

  I had the fantasy a thousand times in the months after Annie disappeared. It was usually a variation on the same theme—though one component of the story always seemed to change. The explanation for how Annie had returned to me. How she had survived her slip and fall into the Pacific.

  I could never conjure any suitable explanation. So I left it to nebulous and fantastical: She had hit her head and been carried to safety by dolphins; or she had been kidnapped by sailors on a foreign cargo ship and made a harrowing escape in the shark-infested waters off New Zealand.

  The explanation for her presence was hazy and unimportant. But the moment we reconnected—that I had always imagined in exquisite detail. It was ripe with joy and, above all, laughter. Nothing at all like the way it actually happened.

  43

  Annie,” I said, then paused. “Is it really you?”

  “Are you alone?” she said.

  That voice. I’d know that voice in a wind tunnel, with my ears stuffed with both cotton and the drummer from Nirvana.

  I looked around the parking lot. Was she asking if there was anyone around me? Not that I could see.

  Before I answered, I paused. I took one more look at my surroundings. Was any of this real? Maybe I’d actually entered the afterlife, and it looked a lot like an industrial park.

  “Annie,” I said.

  “It’s me, Turtle.”

  “Am I dead?”

  Annie swallowed hard.

  “No. We’re not dead.”

  I looked up at the sky.

  “This isn’t possible.”

  “It’s really happening. But we don’t have much time.”

  “Annie, I don’t know what’s going on. I don’t know whether we’ll talk again. So I’ve got to say this: I’ve missed everything—your hands, and the way you smell when you get out of the shower, and . . . ” I paused, then continued. “I take that back. I like the way you smell and look all the time and under all circumstances; even if you never bathed again, you will still be the greatest-smelling person ever.”

  A laugh. She laughed, but only lightly, thinly. Still, I felt the heart tremors.

  “Nat, there’s no time. Are you alone?”

  “You’ve got to tell me what’s going on. Where are you? How long have you been . . . out there? Annie, did you save me at the café?”

  “I need to know if you’re alone, Nat. Can we speak freely?”

  I felt a blush of admonition drench my skin. I felt woozy. This was cornered Annie.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “I’m in danger, Nat. We’re both, obviously, in danger.”

  I felt my knees weaken.

  “Did you find the Explorer?”

  I looked at the black sport utility vehicle, then at the key in my hand. I told her I’d found it.

&nbs
p; “Annie—I need something. Explain . . . how did you not contact me? All these years?”

  Before she could answer, I added, “Were you in a coma?”

  “When I see you. I’ll explain everything. Why I couldn’t see you. And we’ll have chocolate shakes, and I’ll fall asleep with my head in your lap, and we can dream.”

  My heart grew three sizes. But still I wanted to demand answers. I wanted to scream for an explanation. My mouth was almost too dry to speak.

  “You need to be in Nevada—tomorrow afternoon,” she said. “There’s a map—in the glove compartment. With precise details.”

  “Nevada,” I said, with not nearly the shock I was feeling.

  “Boulder City. Not far outside of Las Vegas. It’ll take nine hours. Nat, no airports or police. It’s too dangerous.”

  That one part I pretty much had figured out. Especially as it related to the police. Just hours ago, they were using a scythe to play pin the tail on my donkey. The phone nearly slipped from my hand. It was slick with perspiration. I wiped it off, and switched hands and ears.

  Annie said, “We’re taking care of your friend. We’re protecting her from them.”

  “Friend.”

  “Erin,” Annie said. “She’s very pretty.”

  I recognized Annie’s tone of voice. Jealousy. I’d heard it dozens of times during our relationship. Never merited, and always preceding an argument. Its presence here was preposterous, but there wasn’t time to be defensive. That could wait, at least, until I brought up the other woman in my life.

  “Samantha,” I said. “What happened to Sam?”

  A pause. Like Annie put her hand over the phone. I heard muffled voices, then Annie returned.

  “She’ll be fine. She’ll have a headache for a few hours,” Annie said, then added without a segue, “I love how much you care about people around you.”

  The overture was lost on me. I was stuck on an earlier sentence. We’re taking care of her, Annie kept saying. We?