by R. T. Lowe
“Beautiful. I assume you know who I am?”
Quinn took a deep breath, forcing himself to think. He was intimately familiar with the Faceman: His cross-country rampage had fascinated him and he’d followed the story from the beginning, reading everything he could find on the subject. Now he needed to use that knowledge to his advantage. Quinn didn’t lack self-awareness: He was the proverbial ninety-eight pound weakling on the beach getting sand kicked in his face. He had no illusions about taking on anyone in a physical confrontation unless suicide was the goal. But even if Quinn was the biggest baddest dude around, it wouldn’t matter; the Faceman was gigantic, like some kick ass axe-wielding god-of-war character from a video game.
But you’re a genius. You are a genius. Quinn repeated the words to himself, realizing, oddly, that he was uniquely equipped for this. Physical gifts were not called for here. Inflated, beach-ready biceps and pecs wouldn’t count for anything against the Faceman. But what Quinn possessed—a dazzling intellect—was the one thing the Faceman couldn’t match. In some ways, this was like a surreal and nightmarish extension of the potholed road he’d been traveling on for as long as he could remember; Quinn’s life had been defined by cleft-chinned jocks looking right through him, like their senses couldn’t recognize a fellow male with so little testosterone, and pretty glossy-lipped girls regarding him with embarrassment and horror if he struck up a conversation or tried to buy them a drink (Oh God! I hope no one sees this loser talking to me.).
But you’re a genius.
Those were the words where he found comfort, the words that reminded him he was better than them. His brain—the part of us that meant something, that separated us from less evolved forms of life—ran circles and loop de loops around theirs. His brain was responsible for perfect scores on the ACT and the SAT. His brain had gotten him into Dartmouth. He knew things—understood things—that the dumb beautiful people could never understand because they were too busy being beautiful—and dumb.
You’re a genius.
His intellect was his ticket out of here, his survival card. If anyone could outwit a dumb psychopath—the Faceman had to be dumb, right?—it was Quinn Traynor. He just had to stay cool and control his fear—because fear, he knew from reading a lot of sci fi, was the mind killer.
“You’re Nick Blair,” Quinn said, keeping his voice almost steady. “The Faceman.”
“Bingo! And you’re Quinn Traynor, intrepid photographer and occasional writer for Hollywood Reality Bites. It’s nice to meet you.”
Quinn didn’t know how to respond. He just nodded.
“Do you know what I do for a living?” the Faceman asked.
“No.” It never occurred to Quinn that the Faceman made a living.
“I kill people.”
Quinn swallowed hard, his eyes growing wide with horror. “Look, um, Mr. Faceman, I think I know what’s going on here.”
“You do?”
“Yeah. I know you served in the military. I know you were some kind of superstar special forces guy, am I correct?”
“You are,” the Faceman replied kindly, a hideous grin stretching across his face. “Go on.”
“Okay.” Quinn paused, wiping his palms on his pants, heart thumping fast. “So when you were in the military serving our country overseas, you were protecting all of us, but you went through some terrible experiences people like me can’t even imagine, right? But then when you came back to America no one understood what you went through over there. No one understood the dangers you faced and how you’d kept all of us safe from terrorists. Instead, your fellow Americans yelled at you, cursed at you, called you names like baby killer. And then you couldn’t even get a job. Over there, you’re operating million dollar machines, but here, you couldn’t even find a job washing dishes. Am I right?”
The Faceman nodded, a grave expression crossing his face. Then he slapped his thigh and burst out laughing. “Are you doing First Blood? Is that Colonel Trautman’s speech to Rambo? I love it. That’s classic. And I love Rambo. I’m a huge fan of the Slyster, but you should know that me and Rambo don’t have much in common. You see, Rambo only killed people when his back was to the wall. I kill people when they disappoint me. When they fail. When they turn out to be Wisps.”
A surge of icy fear slithered up Quinn’s spine, but he forced himself to stay calm. “What’s a… am I a…?”
“A Wisp?” the Faceman said. “It means you’re normal, Quinn. I know you think you’re special, but believe me, you’re not. Which is why I’m going to kill you.”
“Wait, wait, wait.” Quinn held up his hands, begging him to keep away from him. “Please. Please don’t kill me. Just listen to me.” Quinn sat there thinking fast. The Faceman was clearly too deranged for rational discourse. But everyone needs something, he thought. He simply had to find out what the Faceman needed and negotiate that in exchange for his life. “I’ll give you anything you want. Anything. Just don’t kill me.”
The Faceman’s lips peeled back from his teeth in a smile and he gazed down on him with dark, impassive eyes. “So now it’s on to Plan B, is it? I can see you’re a brave one. But I’ll take you up on your offer. There is something I want from you.”
“What? What is it?” This was his chance. “Anything you want. Just tell me what it is. It’s yours.”
The Faceman seemed to enjoy watching Quinn grovel like a junkie looking for a fix. “I want information.”
“Information? Okay. Sure. Sure. What do you—”
“One thing you learn in the military is that when you follow a target, you have to make sure you’re not somebody else’s target. I’ve been watching you, Quinn. I know you’ve been trailing a Portland College student. The one in the photo there.” He pointed at the monitor. “His name’s Lucas Mayer, correct?”
“Yes.” Quinn was trembling like a stray dog caught out in the rain. His stomach felt loose and weak. Don’t pee yourself. Please. Don’t let him see that.
“Who has Lucas been in contact with?”
“Lots of people,” Quinn croaked. His mouth was dry and his quivering lips struggled to form words. Fear is the mind killer, he reminded himself. He had to stay cool and let his brain work its magic. “He’s a college student. He sees hundreds of people every day.”
“Who are his main contacts, Quinn. Give me names. And tell me what you know about them.”
“Okay. And if I do…” He hesitated. “Then you’ll let me go?”
“Of course.”
“You… you promise?”
“Sure.”
The only way out of the house was through the front door, and the only way to access the door was from the hallway the Faceman was blocking (literally blocking, his impossibly wide shoulders brushed up against both walls). There was another door, a sliding glass door in the adjacent living room that led to a back yard that looked like a war zone, but it was boarded up from the outside. Quinn was abundantly aware that there was no possibility of escape; the only way he was going to extricate himself from this situation was to convince the Faceman to let him go. But if anyone could do it, it was him.
Because you are a genius. You are a genius.
“Okay, well, he mainly hangs out with his roommate and three girls. All freshmen. His roommate’s Felix August. He’s a football player. Tall, serious kid who kind of keeps to himself. The girls are Caitlin DuPont, Allison Jasner and Harper Connolly. Harper and Allison are both extremely attractive. All the guys are in love with Harper. If Brooklyn Decker had a younger hotter sister, it’d be her. Allison’s a little standoffish. She’s got a bit of an attitude. Caitlin’s the bleeding-heart liberal of the group. She’d join a committee to save just about anything if she thought it was endangered.”
“Have you ever noticed anyone else?” the Faceman asked. “Or anything out of the ordinary? Maybe someone hanging around Lucas who doesn’t seem to belong.”
“Um… well.” Quinn’s breath was coming fast and thin. He felt lightheaded. He took a deep br
eath and glanced down at the crud-spattered linoleum floor, praying it wasn’t puddled in piss. It wasn’t. Deep breath, he told himself. You’re a genius. You can do this. “I’ve seen the same three or four guys following Harper around. If she gets a cup of coffee or checks her mail, they’re usually there. Watching her. I think they’re just infatuated with her but who knows these days. And I have noticed this other guy, an older guy, a few times. He’s probably in his thirties or forties. I think he’s a professor. He’s black. Has a beard.”
“Professor Malone?” the Faceman asked. “The Psychology professor?”
“I don’t know his name.”
The Faceman smiled down at Quinn as he finished his beer. “Eleven eleven seventeenth street, correct?”
“Sorry? Eleven eleven seven—”
“Your address,” the Faceman interrupted. “It has a nice ring to it. Eleven eleven seventeenth street. Eleven eleven. Eleven eleven.”
“Yeah,” Quinn mumbled weakly. “I guess it does.”
“Is the rent paid up?”
“The rent? Yes. Through the end of the year.”
“Perfect.” The Faceman glanced around the kitchen. A sheet of plywood blacked out the lone window above the sink. “This is just what I need.”
“Can I go now?” Quinn’s voice was faltering. “I gave you what you wanted. The information. That’s what you wanted, right? You said you’d let me go. You promised.”
“What did you give me?” the Faceman said slowly. “That’s not information. That’s common knowledge. You gave me nothing. You told me about the people Lucas spends ninety-nine percent of his time with. And you call yourself a reporter?” He laughed, his teeth glimmering under the overhead fluorescents.
“Please,” Quinn begged. “I have a sister. She’s only sixteen. She looks up to me. I’m supposed to teach her how to drive. And my mom—she’s sick. She needs me. Please. Let me go. I promise I won’t tell anyone I saw you. I swear. Please.”
“You have a fine basement.” The Faceman put his empty beer bottle on the counter. “Did you know that? Have you been down to the basement?”
“No.”
“I know you haven’t. Do you know why I know?”
Quinn shook his head.
“Because I’ve been living in your basement for the past three weeks.”
“Oh my God! Oh my God!” Quinn felt like he was going to hyperventilate. The thought of the Faceman living in his house caused him to chill over like ice crystals had formed all over his skin. He choked back the tears but not before a few big drops leaked from the corners of his eyes and rolled down his pudgy cheeks. His plan wasn’t working. And he didn’t have a Plan C.
“Crying like a little girl, I see,” the Faceman mocked, laughing. “Your basement isn’t finished, but there’s lots of space. There’s even a nice long work bench down there. You didn’t have any tools so I brought some of my own after I moved in. I’ve always been a huge fan of saws. It’s amazing what you can do with a good saw. You may not know this, but a properly sharpened saw will go clean through flesh and bone like room temperature table butter.” He smiled and locked eyes with Quinn. “It won’t take me long to saw you up into snack-sized pieces. I’ll be carrying you out of here in a duffel bag.”
“Oh my God!” Quinn wailed in terror.
“And there’s this remarkably well maintained furnace at the old paper plant just a few blocks from here. I’m a fan of your neighborhood, Quinn. I even like the name. No-man’s-land. Has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it? So this furnace at the plant gets just hot enough to turn bone to ash. I tried it out the other day on one of your neighbors. She was old and had a limp. I think I did her a favor by putting her out of her misery. Anyway, I’m happy to say that the furnace exceeded even my demanding expectations. When I’m done with you, it’ll be like you never existed. After all, you didn’t leave much of a mark during your life, did you? Too bad, ‘cause you only get one.”
Quinn screamed.
The Faceman folded his arms and the veins popped out under his skin like garden hoses. “You know what really pisses me off about you, Quinn?” His lips rolled back over his teeth like a wolf about to take a bite out of its prey. “It isn’t the screaming. I mean, that’s tiresome, but I realize I have that effect on people. I’m not exactly new to the business of killing. What pisses me off is that you have no survival instincts. You just sit there. You haven’t even thought about trying to fight or escape. You haven’t even moved. I killed a rat in your basement the other day. I grabbed its throat and squeezed the life right out of it. And do you know what that filthy rodent did before it died? It bit me. A rat bit me. A rat has more fight in it than you. A rat has more will to live than you. You don’t deserve to live.”
“Please. Please. No. No. Please. I don’t—”
“Shut up. Relax. I’m not going to shoot you in the face.”
“You’re not?” Quinn said hopefully. He was shaking so hard his voice warbled.
“No. I find that shooting people doesn’t satisfy all my needs. It lacks a certain personal touch I crave. For someone like you, I prefer to use my hands.” He grinned. “And a nice sharp saw.”
“Help me!” Quinn shouted, twisting around in his chair. He knew that no one could hear him. The surrounding houses were abandoned and the drug dealers and prostitutes who sometimes conducted their business out on his street weren’t the type to call 911 if they heard someone yelling for help—but he screamed anyway. “Please! Someone! Someone help me! No. No. No. Oh God! Nononono.”
The Faceman was on top of Quinn in an instant, gripping him by the back of his chicken neck with one meaty hand and lifting him out of his chair. The bones in his neck made soft cracking sounds under the crushing force of the Faceman’s fingers. He flailed helplessly, his feet swinging above the floor.
“We’re going to play a little game.” The Faceman smiled and drew Quinn in close, bringing his face right up to his own. The Faceman’s colorless eyes were the size of billiard balls, the fragment of nose that remained was bigger than Quinn’s fist, and his mouth could swallow an apple in a single bite. He didn’t look human. The Faceman’s smile widened and he whispered: “It’s called how much pain can you endure before you die?”
Quinn screamed. And then he felt a rush of warmth travel down his legs.
The Faceman carried Quinn across the room and jerked open a door just off the kitchen—the door to the basement. Quinn swung his arms and kicked frantically like a drowning swimmer trying to find solid ground. He felt warm liquid dribbling down his feet, pattering on the floor. He’d never felt weaker or more helpless (or more ashamed). He was at the mercy of the Faceman, and Quinn knew that mercy wasn’t a concept he subscribed to.
“Let me introduce you to the basement,” the Faceman said, hurling Quinn through the doorway into the darkness below. Quinn felt the cold damp air rushing over him, then he crashed against the stairs, thudding down hard, tha-thumping to a jarring stop at the bottom. Something crunched. He heard it before he felt the sharp flashing pain in his wrist. He screamed, but even to his own ears, it sounded fainter than before, more like anguished, defeated moans than cries for help. The room smelled dank, like black spores and rotting wood.
Quinn heard the snap of a stiff switch and the lights came on. He was lying on his stomach, his face pressed against hard gray concrete. He couldn’t move. He was in too much pain and too scared to even try, so he just lay there, sobbing. He heard the heavy thud, thud, thud of the Faceman’s footsteps coming down the staircase, tolling like the bell of a grand European cathedral, heralding Quinn’s departure from this world.
“Don’t worry, Quinn Traynor,” the Faceman called down the stairs, laughing. “In five or six hours, this will all be over.”
Chapter 44
Smoke and Lies
The light from the hallway leaked into the room and took aim at Lucas. He appeared to be sleeping. But now a diagonal strip of yellow light was slapping him across the face. Felix sli
pped in and eased the door back, clicking it shut. He waited. No movement. He crept across the darkened room and stripped down to his boxers, leaving his clothes in a pile next to his bed. He was still thawing out from the suddenness of emerging from the brutal cold into the warmth of the dorm. His nose and chin burned and itched, his cheeks felt chafed and prickly. He pulled back the cover and crawled in. His head hit the pillow. The crisp sheets were pleasantly cool for a second, then they enveloped him in soft warmth as the heavy comforter settled slowly over him, capturing the heat from his own body. It felt wonderful. He hesitated before closing his eyes, daring to hope that tonight might be the night his mind would give him a reprieve from the dream that haunted his sleep. Please. Cut me some slack.
“Hey.” A voice from the other side of the room. Lucas.
Felix wanted to ignore him. Maybe pretend like he was asleep? Not realistic. He’d just climbed into bed and Lucas knew that he wasn’t narcoleptic.
“Sorry,” Felix said. His voice was scratchy. He cleared his throat. “Did I wake you up?”
“It’s okay. It’s like three, ya know. The girls stopped by before. Around eleven. They wanted to hang out. They asked where you were.”
“What’d you tell ‘em?”
“I said I didn’t know.” Lucas yawned.
Silence for a beat. Would Lucas ask the question?
“So where were you, anyway?” Lucas asked sleepily.
There it was.
“You’re not out banging some heinous chick you’re too embarrassed to tell me about, are you?”
“No.” Felix smiled into the dark, looking up at the ceiling. “I got over my heinous-chick-fetish last year. I was just out for a walk.” What else could he tell him?
“A walk?” The deep skepticism in Lucas’s voice carried easily across the room. “It’s cold enough to freeze pee midstream, dude.”