Castle Danger--The Mental States

by Anthony Neil Smith

  Or maybe I was kidding myself. Maybe the anger would come later. Maybe it would be a slow burn. I hoped not. I really hoped not. Because before this, my dad and I had been, if not close, then at least ‘connected’ in more ways than one. We were both fans of true crime TV shows, all the tabloid-sensation stuff, you know. We liked playing detective, trying to outflank each other as to who killed whom and why. Time was, the TV would go off, and we’d carried the game into the local newspaper stories, doing our best to outguess the cops. In fact, it was probably this type of armchair detective work that led me to being a police officer in the first place. And that, in turn, was why I still got a thrill from going out with Joel these past few nights, one step ahead of the police.

  So I told Dad about my latest professional predicament.

  As much as I could about as little as I knew, and when I got to Dylan’s disappearance, I kept things vague, talked about being ‘work friends’, said he tolerated me, taught me, and was always pretty friendly, but I could tell he wasn’t happy to be working with me. Spelling it out for my dad made me realize I was pretty sure that for Dylan, working with me was a demotion.

  Still, I had spent more time with him than anyone else the past few weeks, and I was trying real hard. I had tried to get to know him better, to ask the right questions and not look too eager, the sort of stuff I’m sure Seventeen magazine told the kids if they wanted to ‘fit in’.

  Yet so far, on the personal side, I didn’t have much. I was pretty sure he was straight but didn’t have a girlfriend. Just a feeling. Not even looking right now, and certainly not looking for one-night stands at bars, either. I was pretty certain he didn’t drink much, from the few times we’d been out with the others, but he didn’t abstain either. Usually he nursed a single beer until it was time to leave. From his weight, and from observation, it was also easy to guess he didn’t eat much, but not because he treated his body as a temple. Quite the opposite, he just didn’t think about food. It was nourishment and nothing else. He never suggested anything for lunch, and usually ordered the most utilitarian thing on the menu.

  Dad listened, nodded along.

  What else? Dylan obviously didn’t care about outward appearances. His few suit coats and trousers — khakis, mostly — were one size too big for him, as if he’d once fit them but had gotten smaller in the years since he bought them. He only ever wore one pair of brown, scuffed-up loafers with black socks, combined with knit ties, for fuck’s sake, like those my Dad had worn to work for a very brief time in the eighties. So, why would anyone wear them now, especially at his age, probably less than ten years older than me?

  Dad nodded along.

  I paused, gave him a quizzical look. “Are you even listening?”

  Dad nodded again. “Got it.”

  “So?”

  A shrug. “You said he keeps his old car in good shape. Why would he let someone ruin his car? If he was in on it, why let them do that?”

  “Maybe he was getting a good payday out of this. Enough to buy a new one.”

  “Did he ever do anything to make you think he wanted a new one? If he kept the things in his life pristine, all those old things of his, it’s because he didn’t want to have to replace them. No, I think there’s something else going on.”

  A valid point, but I didn’t think Dad had it right this time. He was looking at it from outside of the political bullpen. Money could change people, and there was a lot of it up for grabs in this campaign. But why would one of the Senator’s closest friends flip so suddenly and without warning? The real power to be gained was from knowing Andrew Marquette and helping him become governor, not from making a quick buck on this Houdini act. So, no, Dad’s suggestion wasn’t logical.

  But what did seem logical, the more I thought about Dylan’s distant behavior, was that he hadn’t just been paid off to disappear in a puddle of animal blood. He’d been working for the other side all along. I mean, from way back, even during the Senator’s earliest campaigns. A long con game. Pieces fell into place when I looked at it from that angle. Dylan, the quintessential insider, feeding Democrats classified info for years. Jesus. He must’ve been pulled by the higher-ups, or he discovered something so big and bad, it sent him running.

  I shook my head. “It’s complicated.”

  “So no one is checking into the possibility that he’s really been kidnapped?”

  “I guess the police are. I don’t know.” Realized it at the same time I said it, “I’m not as much in the loop as I thought.”

  By then, it was getting late and I was stifling yawns, so I told Dad I needed to get to bed. He asked if I was staying long. I wasn’t sure whether he asked because he wanted me to stay long, or because he was hoping I’d take the hint and leave again soon. Whatever, duty called.

  “I have to get back to the Cities, but I thought it was important we ‘meet’, you know? Like this.”

  He smiled and nodded but looked away. “In the morning, when this—” He waved at my hair and makeup. “—is gone, are you still Manny? Do I call you Manny?”

  I felt like giving him the ‘You just don’t understand’ speech, but hey, that was exactly the problem, he didn’t understand. Really didn’t understand. Me acting like a condescending know-it-all right then wouldn’t help. Besides, I couldn’t keep being ‘Hannah’ forever. She was just a crutch until I figured out who I really was.

  But was ‘Manny’ really that bad a name for a woman?

  “Sure, Dad, I’m Manny. I’ll always be Manny. Probably not Herman anymore, but Manny works.”

  His smile turned into a laugh. A sharp bark.

  “What’s so funny?”

  He waved it away. “Nothing, nothing just … you know, when we found out Mom was pregnant with you, the night before she went to the doctor to find out whether you were a boy or a girl, we tossed around some names for both. Know what your Mom wanted to call you if you’d turned out to be a girl?”

  I’d never heard this story before. “No, what?”

  “Imogen.”

  “Emma Jean?”

  “Close, but no. Imogen. Very old school name.”

  “Why? Why Imogen?’

  He laughed again. “Ask your mother.”

  In Marcia’s room — unlike mine, hers hadn’t been turned into a guest room, since she still worked for the farm — I stripped down, stood very still and enjoyed the quiet. There was always a buzz in the silence so that it was never truly silent, but it was a soothing buzz. I closed my eyes, stretched my arms wide on both sides, and tried to feel a release of tension from my brain to my fingertips, but all I did was strain my muscles, so I sighed and collapsed onto the bed.

  I could have stayed like that all night, but then I remembered that I had powered down my phone. The very thought of facing the list of emails, texts, and missed calls caused my heart to beat harder, faster, but it had to be done. I’d had my respite for most of the day. Time to face the music.

  Turned it back on and what can I say? It did not disappoint.

  Of all the missed texts, most required no more than a line or two by way of response, quick work, so I got straight to it. Then there were a few courtesy messages from Joel, asking if I was All OK? The rest were mainly from interns who needed Dylan to sign off on something, and in his absence, they were all running to me. Nice to feel wanted, for a change.

  Speaking of which, next up were several texts from Tennyson: You better? and You alright? and I’m getting worried.

  And: I don’t need two people missing. If you want a job tomorrow, I need to hear from you.

  And: The Senator and I agree, you can be a woman with the campaign. If I decide to let you stay, I mean.

  What was I going to do?

  I’m embarrassed to tell you, but I wanted it to be okay between him and me, personally and professionally. Knowing that I could finally drop the man mask brought both relief and a whole new set of anxieties. But hey, what a good problem to have. I mean, I had tried to score some pills to
speed my transition along. If Tennyson had known, he would’ve appreciated that, right?

  What was I thinking? Was that his hidden agenda? Make me think he likes me to confuse the hell out of me, make me transition faster, make Hannah an LGBT mascot for an otherwise all too Republican campaign?

  In the end, I texted back with Just woke up. Sorry. Still sick. Will call in the AM.

  Even writing that was exhausting. I sat there another few minutes, reburied my face. The light from the screen was bothering me, but then it faded off automatically. I squeezed my eyes shut and let the ghost colors and squiggles take me somewhere else.

  My phone buzzed. Text from Tennyson: Get some sleep.

  Lump in my throat.

  What was I doing?

  I thumbed through my list of new emails, marking most for deletion. Press inquiries (trying to get something juicy from an insider), business inquiries (trying to get close to the Senator without playing fair), typical ‘reply all’ disasters that I didn’t care about in the slightest.

  Personal ones: Paula, Marcia, Mom … well, I hadn’t been very social since my decision to transition. It was like starting over in high school after having built your ‘team’ in middle school. Nothing serious, nothing that couldn’t wait until the morning.

  Finally, a number of messages I couldn’t figure out from the sender or subject line. Most were spam that had sneaked past the filter. Lots from ‘Big Baby Boobs’ asking me to go look at her pics. Lots from people who were certain I needed a fake Rolex on my wrist. Or a very real dildo up my ass.

  One address stood out: DylansGuardianAngel009.

  Fan-fucking-tastic. I’d only just called myself ‘Guardian Angel’. When was that? Felt like ages ago now. My first meeting with Phil Konzbruck? Hard to keep track of this shit storm that passed for my life these days.

  Subject line: Look at this.

  A link.

  Almost clicked on it, but then remembered this was a campaign phone. If it ended up hacked, or some sort of virus infected it and passed it along to everyone in the phone’s memory, well, it would have been ‘game over’ for me on the campaign. That sort of trespass was an instant banishment to the desert.

  Instead, I got out an old laptop. My sister never threw them away, just stacked them in her closet. Lucky for me. I booted up a small Toshiba from at least five years back, didn’t even have a touchscreen like some of the latest marvels. It wouldn’t matter to Marcia if this one got infected or not, since she had long ago scrubbed the farm’s files from the drive, along with any trace of Internet searches that would give up some of her own secrets — while not as ‘shocking’ as mine, I was still pretty sure Marcia was holding something out on us. Almost mid-thirties, no boyfriend, no girlfriend either, that we knew about, no children, and perhaps most surprising of all, she was sticking close to home, rather than using her accounting degree to pull in some big bucks in the Cities. Oh well. Tonight was not the time to stalk Marcia’s online life.

  All I needed was a browser and the wifi.

  Okay, Windows sang to me, the hard drive clicked and spun. We were getting closer. I set the laptop on the end of Marcia’s bed and climbed aboard, lay on my stomach, ankles crossed in the air.

  While it booted, I reconsidered my suspicions. Of course I assumed this was Konzbruck, finally breaking. It had to be someone who knew about the Guardian Angel account, obviously. Did that mean he did know more than he’d been letting on the night before?

  I finally got the browser going, and then my web email, and then opened that weird email, and then clicked the link, and then knew I needed to get back to the Cities immediately. No rest for the wicked. I tossed my clothes back on and sent Dad a text.

  Sad, really. I was looking forward to waffles with him in the morning, but for now, it was drive-thru Caribou Coffee to keep me awake, an even colder a/c in the Lincoln than in the house, and music on The Current to keep me from drifting off.

  Not that sleep was an option after what I’d seen on that computer screen.

  Shudder.

  7

  Six of us, huddled around an iPad screen in a cramped office at headquarters. The Senator, Tennyson, Thorn, Joel, me, and the computer tech who had to help, because apparently that link had only been temporary. Trying to find a way back in took some work.

  What we saw: sickening.

  The link led to a site called Fancy Rooms. Subscription-only, password protected, but my secret emailer had bypassed all that for me. By the time I’d got back to HQ in St. Paul, it no longer worked, yet fortunately the tech was able to decipher enough to relocate the target. It didn’t just refer to Dylan, either. There was a wide variety of Fancy Rooms to choose from.

  On camera, live, was Dylan, but in a situation unlike any I’d seen him in before. He was on a table, perched on his hands and knees, bound by leather and chains, wearing nothing but a thong. He was smeared all over with body oil. Glistening. He kept slipping on the table, it was so slick. His naked body was caked in glitter. Someone had painted his eyes thick with mascara, his lips full with lipstick, but he didn’t look ‘pretty’. He looked as if he was in horrible pain, as if he’d been crying so much that he’d now lost his voice along with his will to resist.

  The view from behind … I can’t say it. I don’t want to remind myself. Let’s just say there was a touch of Mapplethorpe to what we saw, although much less artistic. A sudden whine — a drill, most likely — broke the spell of the bizarre image. The foreign object protruding from his backside began to rotate, and Dylan seized like he’d been struck with Taser darts. Someone revved the drill higher, and Dylan tried hard to scoot forward away from the pain, but the driller kept with him. We saw heavily gloved hands, but then the camera moved to make sure we wouldn’t get a glimpse of the perpetrator.

  Across the top in white block letters: Room 4.

  Along the bottom, links to a few previous videos of Dylan. One a close-up of his face, his mouth and chin covered by something so fierce in its phallic eroticism, I tried to blank it as soon as I saw it. The other images showed another person in a leather mask, this one with a string of large glass beads …

  Down the left side was a column of comments. In hindsight, I wish we hadn’t scrolled down. Some sights damage not just the viewer, they somehow diminish us all. People were watching live, writing comments about what they were seeing, making suggestions about what to do to Dylan next. ‘The Girl Boy’, they called him. The GB. The comments were the last straw. They made me physically hurt:

  “Keep drilling him. Look, his cock’s not even hard.”

  “GB wants it. Dirty whore. GB is playing hard to get. Keep the camera still.”

  “Has anyone pissed in his eyes yet?”

  “When will you make him bleed.”

  Thorn shook his head. “Had no idea,” he mumbled, more to himself than us.

  “No idea, what?” Tennyson turned to him.

  “This, this is a red room. A myth, or so I thought.”

  The tech guy, more of a cliché than I expected with his outdated glasses and rugby shirt, shook his head. “No, man, I’m afraid these things do exist.”

  The Senator blinked back and forth between them. “What things? What’s a red room?”

  The techie sighed. “See, you’ve got the web you all know about, which is tiny, compared to the deep web. That’s where the hackers and child porn creeps and spies and shit hang out. Stuff you can’t find unless you know where to look. This site is unsearchable. Anyway, red rooms are rumored to be places where people are tortured, could be a lot of reasons. Could be sexual, could be just flat out violence. Could be a professional hit, or someone getting their jollies like these freaks. But it’s supposed to be fake, like snuff films.”

  Thorn hmphed. “I suppose you’re on the deep web a lot?”

  “Hey, you wanted me to hack, I hack. That’s what I do.”

  Tennyson and Thorn cringed. I thought better than to ask why the campaign had hired a hacker. I’d simply
assumed he helped when the internet went down. Clearly, I wasn’t quite as worldly wise yet as I’d thought.

  The Senator, arms crossed, raised his eyebrows. “Snuff films are fakes?”

  “Almost one-hundred percent, most of the time. So this,” he flipped his hand at the screen, now paused on a still of a terrified grimace with no more than a fleeting resemblance of the Dylan we’d known. “This isn’t supposed to be real. Not one report of a red room has ever been verified. Always bullshit. But I’ve seen worse than this. More depraved. You just need the right tools.”

  “So, what is this, then?” Marquette’s voice, on the edge of breaking. He paced away, pointing towards the tech behind him. “You, what’s your name? Fuck, turn that off.”

  The man did as he was told. Said he went by the name of Repo Man online. “But you can call me Colin.”

  “Thanks, Colin, thank you so much. We’ll be in touch.” Outstretched hand, big shake. “Don’t tell anyone what you’ve seen, though. We’ll make it worth your while.”

  He seemed happy enough, our Colin, as he left with a vapid smile on his face and a warm can of Coke in his hand.

  Silence. I wasn’t used to that degree of quiet among campaign workers. They were usually desperate to fill every empty inch of air with something verbal. Not now.

  We were waiting for the Senator. He was turned to an empty corner of the room, none of us able to see his face. Maybe a show of emotion?

  Nope.

  When he turned, he was a stone. “What are the odds Dylan’s in on all this, trying to embarrass us?”

  More quiet, this time of the ‘stunned’ variety.

  Finally, it was Joel, of all people, who broke the silence. “How does that embarrass us?”

  The Senator turned to Thorn. “What’s the Marine even doing here?”

  Thorn shrugged, so Tennyson took command of the conversation. “We need options. We need a back-up plan. Where did that feed come from? Can we shut them down?”