She picked up a piece of chalk- Where’d that come from? -from the floor and scratched another line.
Fifty-two. Fifty-two days where?
Again, for the same time in as many days- That’s if I remembered- she examined her room. I’m not very tall, yet the ceiling makes me stoop. She picked up her coffee and sipped it. A realization then struck her and she put the coffee back down.
Why would someone put me here?
She looked at her plastic coffee mug.
What would they do to keep me here?
Something in her chest fluttered.
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“Ou suis-je?” she cried and heaved the mug at the wall. Coffee sprayed across the white walls and floor. Frightened by her outburst she dropped her head into her hands, “Non! Non. Je ne dois pas laché contrôle,” her hands raked through her hair and rested on her shoulders, “D’accord, premier.”
She flipped the tray over, upsetting the remainder of her breakfast, and studied herself in the reflection. Where is that light coming from?
Her face showed signs of a beating. There were faded bruises around her cheeks and jaw. Just above her hair line was a deep cut that had been stitched up. She touched the stitches with a finger. It was tender to the touch. She moved her hands down her body and found a compress below her left breast. She poked at it with her finger. A sharp pain shot through her chest. Oh God! That felt like a... a...
She flexed her left shoulder and felt another compress on her back. What happened to me? Who did this? Why can’t I remember? Someone help me! Someone please help me. Don’t leave me here. Johnny, help me!
Please don’t leave me here! Johnny! Johnny?
“Johnny...” she whispered. In the back of her mind she felt a fog swirling and starting to lift.
I’ve got something. Hold onto it, chick! Think!
Her stomach heaved. She threw her head back and fought the urge to vomit. Her arms wrapped around her belly.
She doubled over and all went black.
*****
She opened her eyes.
The harsh light of the naked bulb burned.
She closed her eyes and rubbed her temples and realized, I’m still here. She opened her eyes again and stood only to discover that the ceiling of her doorless and windowless room was so low that she had to stoop. She stretched out her arms and her fingers brushed the opposite walls. In the corner was a plastic box. She reached down and opened it. Like always a tray of food was inside. Toast, coffee, orange juice and an apple. Breakfast? Then it must be morning again.
She sat down on the floor and looked at spattering of marks on the wall. Did I make them? How many? One, two, three... five... ten... fifty-two. Fifty- two? Fifty-two what? Days? Could that be... ? Yes. That’s it. I’ve been here fifty-two days. That’s if I remembered to mark each day. Where is here?
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She picked up a piece of chalk- Where’d that come from? -from the floor and scratched another line.
Fifty-three. Fifty-three days where?
Again, for the same time in as many days- That’s if I remembered- she examined her room. I’m not very tall, yet the ceiling makes me stoop. She picked up her coffee and sipped it. A realization then struck her and she put the coffee back down.
Why would someone put me here?
She looked at her plastic coffee mug.
What would they do to keep me here?
Something in her chest fluttered.
“Ou suis-je?” she cried and heaved the mug at the wall. Coffee sprayed across the white walls and floor. Frightened by her outburst she dropped her head into her hands, “Non! Non. Je ne dois pas laché contrôle,” her hands raked through her hair and rested on her shoulders, “D’accord, premier.”
She flipped the tray over, upsetting the remainder of her breakfast, and studied herself in the reflection. Where is that light coming from?
Her face showed signs of a beating. There were faded bruises around her cheeks and jaw. Just above her hair line was a deep cut that had been stitched up. She touched the stitches with a finger. It was tender to the touch. She moved her hands down her body and found a compress below her left breast. She poked at it with her finger. A sharp pain shot through her chest. Oh God! That felt like a... a...
She flexed her left shoulder and felt another compress on her back. What happened to me? Who did this? Why can’t I remember? Someone help me! Someone please help me. Don’t leave me here. Johnny help me!
Please don’t leave me here! Johnny! Johnny?
“Johnny...” she whispered. In the back of her mind she felt a fog swirling and starting to lift.
I’ve got something. Hold onto it, chick! Think!
Her stomach heaved. She threw her head back and fought the urge to vomit. Her arms wrapped around her belly.
She doubled over and all went black.
*****
The dream ended.
She opened her eyes.
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The harsh light of the naked bulb burned.
She closed her eyes and rubbed her temples.
Here we go again. Why’d I say that?
She opened her eyes and stood, but the ceiling of her doorless and windowless room was so low that she was forced to stoop. She stretched out her arms and her fingers brushed the opposite walls.
Reaching down she opened the plastic box in the corner and withdrew her breakfast. She placed the tray on the floor.
Toast, coffee, orange juice and an apple. It’s morning again. She sat down cross-legged and looked at some marks she made on the wall. How many? One, two, three... five... ten... fifty-three. Fifty-three? Fifty- three what? Days? Could that be... ? Yes. That’s it. I’ve been here fifty-three days. That’s if I remembered to mark each day. Where is here?
She picked up a piece of chalk- Where’d that come from? -and scratched another line. Fifty-four. Fifty-four days where?
Again, for the same time in as many days- That’s if I remembered- she examined her room. I’m not very tall, yet the ceiling makes me stoop. That I know.
She picked up her coffee and sipped it, then suddenly put the coffee back down.
Why would someone put me here? What would they do to keep me here?
“Ou suis-je?” she cried and heaved the mug at the wall. Coffee sprayed across the spotless white walls and floor. They should be permanently stained by now.
Frightened by her outburst she dropped her head into her hands, “Non!
Non. Je ne dois pas laché contrôle,” her hands raked through her— My hair’s longer—and rested on her shoulders. “D’accord, premier.”
She flipped the tray over, upsetting the remainder of her breakfast, and studied herself in the reflection.
Her face showed signs of a beating. There were faded bruises around her cheeks and jaw. Just above her hair line was a deep cut that had been stitched up. She touched the stitches with a finger. It was tender to the touch. She moved her hands down her body and found a compress below her left breast. She poked at it with her finger. A sharp pain shot through her chest. Oh God! That felt like a... a...
She flexed her left shoulder and felt another compress on her back. What happened to me? Who did this? Why can’t I remember? Someone 88
GREEN-EYED BURN
help me! Someone please help me. Don’t leave me here. Johnny help me!
Please don’t leave me here! Johnny! Johnny?
“Johnny...” she whispered. In the back of her mind she felt a fog swirling and starting to lift. I know him?
She bit down on her tongue. The sharp jolt of pain helped her focus. I’ve got something. Hold onto it, chick! Think! Who is Johnny? Who is he to me-?
The cold fingers of fear brushed across the back of her neck— Me? I don’t know! Oh God! Who am I? Like bile, panic rose and singed the back of her mouth.
Oh my God! Non, non, non, non... What’s happening? Who did this
to me? Why? Why? What? Stop! Don’t scream. He’s probability watching me. He? Why did I say he ? Johnny? No, that does not feel right. She felt a warmth creep through her body. I would like Johnny watching me. No ‘he’ is evil... I don’t want him watching me... touching me... touching me... Smiling at me!
Smiling at... Smile.
Her stomach heaved. She threw her head back and fought the urge to vomit. Her arms wrapped around her belly.
Fingers...
Fear...
In his hand...
Death...
He was... he was...
Flesh...
He... on... me...
She looked down at her hands. They were touching naked flesh. Her flesh. I’m naked. I didn’t notice that before. Naked? Johnny? No... smiling... smile! Sm... Sm... Smyles. Smyles! Oh God!
She doubled over and dry-heaved. The racking pain and the cold floor jolted the pieces in place and memories burst though the narcotic-induced barriers in her mind. She rolled to her feet and screamed, “Smyles! You sonof-a-bitch! I beat you! I know who I am, you Asshole! You thought you could steal my identity! My soul! I beat you! I know who I am! I’m Catherine Wildman! You hear that? I am Catherine Wildman and you are dead, Smyles!
Dead!”
*****
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The dream ended.
Catherine opened her eyes.
Her head throbbed with pain, and bright pinpoints of light spurred behind her eyes. As her full senses returned, Catherine realized she was in total darkness and enclosed in a very small space. A box, or crate of some kind. She fought off a brief attack of claustrophobia and forced herself to remain calm.
Catherine flexed her fingers gently outward and encountered the smooth surfaces of polished wood on either side. A similar surface pressed down on her breasts and made breathing an effort. Catherine pushed up on her toes and could feel the top of her head tap hollowly against the ceiling of her cramped prison.
Catherine knew she was no immediate danger of asphyxiation as the air she breathed in was dry but pure.
Gently Catherine tapped on the side of the box with her knuckles. Listening carefully to the sound she deduced that the wood was less that a couple centimeters thick. Then like a lightning strike flashing through the dark places of her mind, Catherine realized the shape of the box was familiar. She was shut up inside a coffin. A crate was one thing, but a coffin? Catherine shuddered involuntarily.
Catherine slowed her breathing and focused her energy. With her eyes close she pictured the world outside.
Then she let it rip.
With a single convulsive explosion of mental and physical energy, Catherine’s fist exploded through the front of the coffin, followed by a tearing and splintering crash of wood as the panels of the coffin burst asunder and the enclosing structure fell apart around her.
Catherine Wildman stood in a doorless, seamless, white room. The parts of the uneven ceiling was so low that it touched the hair on the top of her head. She stretched out her arms and her fingers brushed the opposite walls.
“Crap,” she whispered. Out of the frying pan…. Catherine proceeded to tear away the Virtual Reality imagining equipment and electrodes fastened to her skin and hurl them against the wall, all the while screaming into the air, “Come and get me you pricks!”
90
12
Somewhere
“Christ,” spat Raymond Smyles. His eyes hurt. For almost two and a half months he had been watching Catherine Wildman on the television monitor live out her V.R. existence. He had fifty bucks that said she was ready to crack.
Lydia Miezlaiskis swivelled around on her chair and faced the scarred man. “Looks like your plan isn’t working.” More than a hit of sarcasm dripped from her tongue.
“It wasn’t my plan. Stein came up with it. Beats the hell out of me why.”
Smyles lit up a cigar. “What I want to know is what does Stein hope to get out of this?”
“A weakening of the mind,” Jefferson Stein answered as he entered the small surveillance room. “You should know that, Ray.”
“Good morning sir,” Lydia said sweetly, giving up her chair. Stein sat down and stared at the monitor. “How is our little trouble maker today?”
“She seems to have broken out of her shell.” Lydia tapped the monitor screen with a long red nail. “And then some.”
The ruined V.R. equipment was scattered across the floor and Catherine sat cross legged in the center of the room. Although the surveillance camera was carefully hidden in the corner, she seemed to be staring right at them.
“She didn’t crack,” Smyles said.
“Oh, no. No, not so you could notice Ray,” Stein replied, eyes still glued 91
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to the image on the monitor. “But on the inside…” he trailed off then smiled and turned to face the two agents. “We’ll see.” Stein opened his briefcase and retrieved a thick folder. “This file,” he said tapping it, “is six months work of study done by the Canadian Security Intelligence Service.”
Smyles snorted.
“What is it?” Lydia asked stepping closer.
“Wildman’s psychological profile.”
“Psych pro? How did you get it?” Lydia asked, “That is highly confidential information. I couldn’t even access it with my level of clearance.”
“I have my ways,” Stein said. “Since little Miss Wildman has stumbled back into the scene I thought it was time to prove a little theory.” He flipped open the file. His long tapered fingers skimmed across a page until he found what he was looking for, “Monophobia.”
“Monophobia?” Smyles asked, “Fear of mono?”
Stein sighed.
“Fear of being left alone,” Lydia said.
“Very good Lydia. You’ve done your homework. A happy face for you.”
“Thank you, but how is this useful?”
“When she was assigned to the RCMP Special Operations unit, CSIS
started a file on her and this little nugget in Wildman’s personality popped up.”
“I don’t understand,” Smyles said and flung his arms in the air. “What does this have to do with anything? It’s just psycho bullshit. If you gave me and DeTully a few minutes with her we would have found out where the disk was months ago.”
Stein exploded, “It was your fuck up that lost the disk in the first place!
So shut your pie hole!”
Scowling, Smyles sat down and listened.
“Now, she has not cracked,” Stein continued calmly, “because we have given her no reason to believe that she was alone. I suspected she might break out of her cocoon about now so we shall begin with phase two.”
“So what are we going to do now?” Smyles grunted.
“What have you done with the guy she was with?”
“Riel? He’s stashed in one of the rooms upstairs. You said you wanted him alive. His only contact has been with DeTully,” Lydia said. “You want him?”
“Yes. Strip him naked and move him to the interrogation room.”
“I’ll see to it,” Lydia said and left the room.
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“Why do you want him?” Smyles asked, feeling more and more left in the dark. “He knows nothing.”
“Oh, I’m sure that’s true, but he still could be useful as a tool to work Wildman. Now pay attention, Ray. This is what I want you and Sam to do.”
Stein filled Smyles in on his plan. “Do you understand?”
“Yeah,” Smyles said.
“Good. Snap to it.”
Smyles stood and turned toward the exit, “One questions though.” He halted and faced Stein.
The handsome man watched Catherine intently on the monitor, “What is it?”
“What images were you feeding her through that V.R. unit?”
With a glint in his eye, Stein turned away from the monitor and looked at Smyles. A smile slithered across his face.
Smyles realized it was better that he did not know and left the room.
“Idiot,” Stein uttered under his breath. He turned back to ward the monitor and studied Catherine’s image. “You are not as strong as you think. I’ll break you. Mark my words.” He flicked off the screen and sat in the dark for a long moment before punching in a twelve-digit number on the video-phone. Instantly the small screen flickered and an image of a sole figure obscured by shadows appeared.
“I’m proceeding with phase two of the plan as we discussed,” Stein said.
“Good,” replied an electronically altered voice.
“Any further orders?” he asked.
“Not at this time.”
“I have one concern,” Stein said. The figure did not reply so he continued,
“I believe we may have to eliminate Mr. Smyles. He is becoming too much of a loose cannon.”
“No. He still has his use.”
Stein tapped the arm of his chair with his index finger. “As you wish.”
The transmission ended.
Stein made a clucking sound with his tongue.
*****
Naked, save for a pair of boxer shorts and the kind of slave hood used by a dominatrix, John Riel waited in the dark. The routine had been the same. The man with the guinea hen voice would enter the room and unchain him 93
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from the bed and move him to the toilet. He would give John ten minutes then chain him to the wall. He would leave only returning to feed him something through a straw. After twelve hours John would be taken off the wall and returned to the bed. Today he was already on the wall when the door opened too early for the first feeding.
John Riel tensed. The sound moving across the room was different. This is someone else.
“Now that’s a sight,” a sultry voice cooed.
Definitely not the guinea hen. “Who’s there?” John asked, trying to keep the sound of his voice even.
A throaty chuckle was the response. Suddenly there were two soft hands with long nails playing with his nipples.
“Who are you?” John asked again.
A tongue caressed an exposed ear lobe, “A wild fantasy you once had as a teenager,” she purred.
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