I took the exit ramp behind both cars, watching Petrovsky
closely. I could make out the man hunched over the
steering wheel, felt lead in my stomach as I prayed we
were being cautious, keeping out of sight.
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Jason Pinter
I followed his car down a one-lane highway, our speeds
decreasing as the road became more residential. The
doctor was steadfastly observing the thirty-five-mile-anhour speed limit. The silver Mercedes was only a buffer
for a few minutes, as it peeled into a strip mall soon after,
leaving our car as the only one behind Petrovsky.
We followed him down this road for some time. Eventually the sun began to set. The sky grew darker. Soon all
I could make out of Petrovsky’s car were the taillights. The
faint hum of the tape recorder was the only noise in the
car. My pulse was quickening. I had no idea how this
night would end.
About twenty minutes later, Petrovsky turned on his left
blinker and pulled off onto a narrow street. I had to follow,
had to hope it was too dark for him to recognize our car
or see me behind the wheel. I was still about thirty yards
behind him, but when his Nissan made another right and
then a left within seconds of each other, I had to speed up
before losing him among the turns.
“There’s no way he doesn’t know we’re following him,”
Amanda said, her voice quiet, fearful. “No way.”
I said nothing. Just spoke the directions into the
recorder and kept driving.
We passed through streets lined with houses, lamps illuminating rows of homes. Most of them were in disrepair,
casting an aura of poverty, carelessness, hopelessness. I
tried not to look at them, focused on the car in front of us,
felt cold sweat beading down my back. Fear and adrenaline coursed through me, and I wondered how much longer
this chase would last.
Then Petrovsky made a right onto another road, this one
dimly lit. I couldn’t see any houses on either side. There
were no lamps. It was just him and us.
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I glimpsed the street sign, stated into the recorder,
“Turned right onto Huntley Terrace.”
Huntley Terrace was a narrow road. Once we’d driven
a few miles, we passed by a few houses spaced sporadically
apart, driveways hidden behind thick brush and wooden
fences. There were no streetlights, no road signs. We were
still twenty yards behind Petrovsky, but we were the only
cars traveling this road. By this point, the gig was up.
“Henry,” Amanda said. “What is that?”
I squinted my eyes, felt my stomach lurch as I saw that
we were approaching a pair of metal double gates up
ahead. The were bracketed by a brick wall that encircled
the property within. The woods were thick on either side.
I couldn’t see anything beyond them.
“Oh, fuck,” I said. Petrovsky had slowed down as he
approached.
“What now?” Amanda asked.
“I don’t know.”
“I’m scared,” she said. She turned to me. In her eyes I
could tell she knew what I was thinking. We had to keep
going.
I slowed the car down, pulled to a stop and put the car
in Park. I waited to see what Petrovsky would do next. His
car stopped at the gates. It stayed there for close to a
minute, then I heard the sound of metal screeching as the
gates swung inward. They did not look like they enclosed
a residential area. They were protecting a single home.
Was this where Petrovsky lived?
When the gates were open, the doctor pulled onto a
gravel road and then disappeared out of sight. I waited,
unsure of what to do.
And after a minute of waiting, I realized something
strange.
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Jason Pinter
The gates hadn’t closed.
They were wide open.
Whoever was inside those gates was waiting for us.
“Too late to turn back,” I said.
I put the car into Drive and slowly approached the gates.
I still couldn’t see anything beyond them, but as I got
closer I could make out a red hue around the bend. Definitely Petrovsky’s brake lights.
I drove through the gates, half expecting a Sonny
Corleone sneak attack. But we passed through without
anything out of the ordinary. I made the turn, then jumped
as I heard the metal sounds again.
The gates were closing behind us.
“We shouldn’t be here,” Amanda said. “We should go.”
“We can’t now,” I said. “Let’s just see what’s what.”
As I continued down the path, Petrovsky’s Nissan came
into view. It was parked at the end of a driveway. The
driveway was next to a house. It was shrouded in darkness,
but there was just enough light from the moon to illuminate the seven-foot-high brick wall surrounding the entire
property. It confused me. The wall wasn’t high enough that
an adult would have a problem climbing over it. I also
noticed that every tree on the property was at least ten or
twenty feet from the fence. There were no limbs that could
reach the fence. It had been clearly built to keep someone
smaller from getting out.
Down the driveway, I could see Petrovsky. He was
standing next to his car. Hands in his pockets. He was
waiting for us.
I pulled up close until I was directly behind the Nissan,
then put the car into Park and shut the engine off.
“Stay here,” I said to Amanda.
“The hell with that,” she said, unbuckling her seat belt.
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We both stepped out of the car. Petrovsky was standing
in the middle of the driveway. He did not move as we approached. He did not seem surprised to see us.
As we got closer, I could see that the doctor was trembling slightly. His hands were in his pockets, his body too
rigid. As I got closer, a wave of fear coursed through me.
I saw that Petrovsky was shaking. The man was afraid.
“Dr. Petrovsky,” I said. “It’s Henry Parker. I know you
saw us following you. I’m sorry to approach you under
these circumstances, but I have more questions.”
“Yes, Mr. Parker,” the doctor said, his voice low, remorseful. “I am very sorry, too.”
I heard a faint rustle come from behind us, then there
was a sharp pain in my leg. Before I could shout, the
gravel of the driveway came hurtling up to meet me, and
then everything swam away.
22
I woke up groggy, with pain in my head and my leg. It
took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the faint crack of
light coming from a doorway on the far side of the room
that was otherwise pitch-black. I was standing up. I was
shirtless, my bare torso cold against a metal pole behind
me. My head pounded, and when I tried to move I realized
my hands were bound above me, my legs bound below.
My arms were bound and tied to what felt like a metal
pipe. I groped around, felt that the pipe went straight back
into th
e brick wall behind me. My feet were bound behind
the same pipe. I wriggled but it did no good.
Suddenly my eyes flew open. Amanda. Oh, God,
where was she?
I struggled against the bonds, but I couldn’t see
anything, couldn’t reach the rope that bound my hands.
Then a voice spoke out from the darkness, and I
stopped moving.
“Don’t worry, she’s fine. I’m sorry my associate had to
restrain you, but I promise it’s for your own good.” The
voice was gruff, older, slightly raspy. A smoker’s voice.
“Who are you?” I said. “Come over here so I can see
you, asshole.”
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“Listen to you, talking as though you’re holding all the
cards. When your hand was folded before you even woke up.”
I heard a spark, like a match striking flint, and then a
small orange flame lit up the darkness. The flame rose until
I heard a sucking sound. The flame lit the end of a cigarette, and with a puff was blown out.
I could see the cigarette about ten feet from me, and
with each inhalation I caught the outline of a man’s face.
I couldn’t see much detail, but he looked to be in his late
fifties. Harsh light to go with the harsh line. He just sat
there, sucked his cigarette and said nothing.
“Come on!” I shouted. “What do you want?”
“What do I want,” the man said. He flicked away the
cigarette and stood up. He must have turned on a light
switch, because suddenly an overhead lamp cast a soft
glow over the room. I made out what I could. I was in what
looked to be some sort of basement. Bare cement walls and
a tiled floor. There were no windows I could see. The
room wasn’t dingy, though, and in fact I was surprised that
it appeared to be rather well maintained. A plush leather
sofa rested in front of a television set, and a long-forgotten treadmill sat adorned with boxes and discarded clothes.
If this was a prison or interrogation room, it wasn’t the
most intimidating one. The man approached me, took
another cigarette from his pocket, lit it and took a deep
drag.
Then he approached me, plucked the cigarette from his
lips and held it out.
“Want a puff?”
“Yeah, nothing satisfies me more than sucking on a
butt that was just in some strange asshole’s mouth.”
“You sure? It’s a Chesterfield.”
“Gee, now, that makes a difference. Go screw yourself.”
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Jason Pinter
The man shrugged, took another puff.
“I haven’t smoked another brand in over thirty years.
You know, you can enjoy the pleasures of so many things
in life without knowing where it came from. Who made
it. Thirty years ago, I would have taken a beating before I
smoked. Now I can’t get enough of ’em. Ironic, ’swhat it
is. That delicious burn inside your lungs, just makes me
want to close my eyes, savor the feeling. My ex-wife
always asked why I spent so much time reading about crap
like that and never listened to her. I’d say, baby, because
one’s interesting, and one ain’t.”
I stayed silent. The longer he talked, the longer I
stayed alive.
“Chesterfields started to become popular back in the
day when Arthur Godfrey ended his radio program by
saying, ‘This is Arthur buy-’em-by-the-carton Godfrey!’
Since the program was sponsored by Chesterfield, pretty
soon that’s all anyone wanted to smoke. The nonfiltered
Chesterfields were popular during Vietnam, allegedly the
strongest nonnarcotic stimulant in the country. The government dropped Chesterfields into the jungle by the thousands. And the common man, he figured whatever was
good enough for the fighting men and women of this
country was good enough for him.”
The man stepped into the light, and I finally got a better
look at him.
His graying hair was full, skin worn and weatherbeaten.
The crow’s-feet at his eyes actually made him look
handsome, like one of those blue-jeaned cowboys who
spent their days on oil rigs, the kind that actually needed
a Chevy flatbed. He was lean, about five foot eleven,
wearing a dark green T-shirt and jeans. There was a thin
scar about an inch long that ran down his right cheek. It
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was a faint line, slightly jagged, as though it hadn’t been
stitched up right. He took another pull, let the ash hang on
the end for a long while smoldering before tapping it onto
the floor.
My heart hammered in my chest. My wrists ached, and
the pins and needles in my feet let me know they wouldn’t
be much help.
“Where is she?” I said.
“You need to be more trusting,” the man said. “I told
you she’s fine. So you should believe that she is fine. I’m
not gonna lie to you, Henry. You do me the same courtesy,
and things are gonna work out just splendid for Ms.
Davies. But let’s just focus on the here and now. You and
me. Got it?”
“Who are you?” I said.
“Who I am isn’t as important as what I have to offer,”
he said.
“I don’t want anything from you,” I spat. “People know
I’m here. That door’s gonna get busted in any second and
I’m gonna laugh as they haul your ass away.”
“Really…they’re coming for you, huh? Who, the CIA?
FBI? Batman? Guess you wouldn’t mind then if I leave
your girl alone for a few weeks. She won’t need food or
water since, you know, they’re coming for her.”
“You’re making a mistake,” I said. “She doesn’t
belong here.”
“Well, she’s here. No changing that now. Anyway, back
to what I was saying. I have something to offer you, Henry,
and if you’re as smart as I think you are you’ll take this
offer.”
“What is it?” I said.
“It’s simple, really,” the man said, taking another puff.
“I need you to tell me everything the good doctor told you
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Jason Pinter
and everything you know about the kids. Spare no detail.
It’s very important you lay all your cards on the table. And
if you do just that, and I believe you, behind door number
one will be your girlfriend’s life. You spill, she lives. You
don’t spill, her blood does. Simple as that.”
“I’ll take the offer,” I said, “because we don’t know
anything. Petrovsky didn’t say a word to us. Now, let us
go.”
“Oh, come on, Henry, you think it’s that easy? You
think that’s it? Nah, we can get some more out of you.”
He took the cigarette from his mouth. Looked at the
filtered end.
“Chesterfields,” he said. “Just about heaven. Can’t find
the unfiltered bastards anywhere nowadays, but smoke
enough of these and they do the trick.”
“Hope that lung cancer acts mighty quick,” I said.
“If it gets me, it
gets me,” he said. “But I’ll go out
with a smile.”
A spark fell off the end of the butt. I watched it flutter
to the ground. I moved my wrists around, tried to feel the
pipe where my hands were tied, sliding my fingers back
and forth out of view until my thumb caught on something.
A piece of metal. Something jutting out from the pipe.
The man reached into his pocket, brought out his wallet.
He pulled out a one-dollar bill. Held it up in front of me.
Then he took the lit cigarette between his thumb and forefinger. Slowly he brought the cigarette to the bill. There
was a crackling sound as the lit end burned a perfect circle
through the paper.
When the cigarette had passed through, he held up the bill,
looked at me through the hole, smiled. “Peekaboo, I see
you.”
He walked toward me, still holding the lit cigarette. As
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he got closer, the light illuminated the man more. I began
to shiver, my bare torso shaking. Then I noticed something
that nearly made me gag. Covering the man’s arms were
a road map of small, white marks. Scars. Perfectly round.
They were cigarette burns. And there were dozens of them.
“So what did Petrovsky tell you?” he said, his voice
frighteningly calm.
“I told you, nothing. Leave us alone.”
He scratched his chin, looked at me. “Hmm…no.”
He took another step forward, leaned down and pressed
the lit end of the cigarette against my chest.
I screamed as I heard the sound of burning, waves of
pain shooting through me as I bucked and tried to kick to
no avail. The pain was horrific. I hoped I would pass out.
Finally the man removed the cigarette from my skin.
Then he leaned over and blew gently on the spot where
he’d just burned me.
“That’s gonna leave a mark,” he said.
I was panting. I could felt sweat pouring down my
body, getting into my eyes. I felt around where my hands
were bound, found that piece of metal I’d felt before. I
rubbed it with my thumb. It was a screw attached to a bolt.
The end of the screw jutted out from the metal about half
an inch. Just maybe…
I slowly moved my wrists until the half-inch screw was
fitted snugly inside one of the loops of knot that bound my
wrists. I moved it slowly up and down, back and forth,
trying to loosen the knot, to create some slack.
The man tossed his cigarette onto the floor, stubbed it
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