After the First Death

by Robert Cormier

  I did not mention the report to you; it was important that you did not know. We brought you to the window that looked out across the chasm to the bridge, the van, and the bus. You made no comment when you viewed the scene, although I saw your eyes flying everywhere.

  One of the generals—his name does not matter, it is a long time since he has used his own name—outlined procedures. We would contact Artkin on the van and tell him you were on the scene. If the situation had not changed, you would be given the stone wrapped carefully and placed in a small box, half the size of a shoebox. You would walk alone the eighth-of-a-mile distance through the woods. You would wear only your shoes, socks, shorts, undershirt, and jeans. The morning would be chilly, but Artkin had insisted you wear no jacket or garment under which anything could be concealed. The box must be held out in the open at all times. Our snipers would cover you all the way.

  “There has been one change,” the general said, addressing me and not you. “Originally, this man Artkin said the messenger would be returned as soon as the stone was delivered. Now, he insists that he must stay until the bargaining is finished.”

  I had not expected that. Or had I?

  “That’s all right,” you said, your voice small now and thin.

  “It should not take long, Ben,” I said. “They want to end this thing as much as we do.”

  You nodded, your chin firm again. I was proud of you.

  We went outside while the final contact was made with Artkin. We did not wish for you to hear the contact in the event Artkin said something that could upset you.

  When the signal was given, I said: “It’s time, Ben.”

  You nodded again, still firm, resolute. The morning was chilly, but you did not shiver. Neither did I. Nothing could touch us, I see in retrospect, except the emotions of that moment.

  You said: “I don’t want to let you down, Dad. I’ll do my best.”

  “Your best is all we want, Ben. And you won’t let us down, no matter what happens. I know my son.”

  “Time,” the general said, emerging from the building.

  We shook hands stiffly, Ben, you and I, although I had to resist reaching for you and enclosing you in my arms. I went inside the building. They thought it best if I did not see you make that long, vulnerable walk to the bridge. I sat down, near the monitor. I tried to keep from thinking but I knew I could not keep myself from listening. And I also knew that soon I would be listening to your voice from the van.

  Communications established.

  The report meant that we had managed to establish a communications link with the van without the knowledge of Artkin. One of the troopers trained in terrorist countermeasures had climbed the girders under the bridge and connected a direct line from the van to our headquarters. The connector was a sophisticated piece of equipment developed for military use. The trooper had worked painstakingly, directly under the van, under cover of darkness. The operation probably would not have been possible if there had not been space between the railroad ties for the trooper to have access to the bottom of the van. The communications device would absorb all sound within the van much like a suction cup and transmit it to our monitor in our headquarters.

  I waited while you traversed the edge of the ravine in your walk to the bridge. You were part of the operation now, part of its success or failure. I did not want failure. The least of my fears was that I had volunteered to be one of the scapegoats if we met failure. The worst of my fears was you, Ben, as you made your way to the bridge. I pictured you in my mind’s eye as you walked. The building I stood in was silent and so was the monitor.

  But thirty minutes later, the silence would be broken by screams. Your screams.

  I still hear those screams, even here in this room all this time later, screams that are as much a part of me as of you. Screams that never stop.

  I know, of course, where you went when you left this room.

  I said before I know you better than anyone else and I should have realized you were trying to throw me off the track when you wrote on those pages that you wouldn’t go to Brimmler’s Bridge until I returned to the room.

  That’s where you’ve gone.

  That’s where I must go.

  Before it’s too late.

  Is it too late, Ben?

  part

  10

  The boy was naked. Miro’s first instinct was to look away. The boy looked so forlorn and pathetic and frightened that Miro did not wish to invade his privacy any further. But he also found himself fascinated by the boy who was almost a mirror to himself, except that this boy was fair with almost no body hair while Miro was dark with clusters of hair already gathered on his chest. The boy avoided Miro’s eyes. His hands were crossed in front of the private place between his legs. Why was he naked?

  Artkin said: “It was necessary to search him. Thoroughly.” Answering Miro’s unasked question. “He is clean. There was nothing hidden on him. And he brought this.”

  He handed Miro a gray smooth stone about the size of an egg. Miro rubbed it with his thumb. A stone from his homeland. Would he ever see that place? It seemed so distant from this bridge, this van.

  “So we know they are telling the truth,” Artkin said. “They have Sedeete. But we still have the children. And this boy.” He turned to the boy. “Put on your clothes.” He tossed the boy his clothing, all bunched up in an untidy pile. The boy was too slow to react, and the clothing fell in a heap to the floor.

  As the boy dressed himself with hurried fumbling hands, keeping his face averted, Miro studied Artkin’s face. Sedeete was captured; Artkin was now in command, and Artkin liked action. Would there be action at last? But Artkin’s face told him nothing. Artkin merely watched the boy dress, as if fascinated by the procedure. Miro also watched him closely. He wanted to stay alert. Artkin had summoned him here and left Stroll with the children and the girl. The best way he could serve Artkin at the moment was by being alert.

  The boy was finally fully clothed. His breath came in small sharp bursts as if he had run a long distance. His hands twitched and trembled at his sides. Miro deduced that the boy was a year or two younger than himself—but then, he remembered, of course, that he did not know his own age.

  “Now,” Artkin said, facing the boy. “I have questions for you. And what you answer will decide whether or not you will survive. Do you understand? You must speak the truth and quickly.”

  The boy nodded, obviously terrified. Miro was always fascinated by the terror in people’s eyes. Miro was eager for the questions and answers to begin. When Artkin had told him that a boy about his own age had been selected to deliver the stone as proof of Sedeete’s capture, Miro’s interest and curiosity had quickened. But why a boy? Because, Artkin had explained, he preferred someone who was not a professional. When the general on the monitor had said he would be willing to send his own son as a gesture of goodwill, to hurry matters along and bring the bargaining closer, Artkin had been intrigued. His own son? Ordinarily, the person sent in a situation of this sort was a pawn, part of the game both sides were playing, a game in which advantages were being sought, balances were weighed. But perhaps the general was not playing a game after all. Perhaps he really wanted to bargain, unwilling to risk the death of the children. Perhaps the death of the little boy in retaliation for Antibbe’s death had served a larger purpose than revenge. Who could tell about Americans, anyway? Thus, he accepted the general’s son as the messenger. But he counseled Miro: “Watch him, study him. He is close to your age. You may see something that I won’t see.”

  But all Miro could see now was this trembling, timid teen-ager.

  “Tell us,” Artkin said. “Are you the son of one of those generals?”

  “Yes,” the boy said. “My name is Ben Marchand. My father is General Mark Marchand.” His voice emerged as small and thin and quavering, as if an even smaller boy inside of him were speaking.

  “Tell us what you know of this entire situation and why your father chose you to b
ring us the stone,” Artkin said, voice harsh, demanding, taking advantage of the boy’s fright.

  “My father called me into his office. We live on Fort Delta. He said that a package had to be delivered to the—to the men on the bridge. He said it had to be delivered by someone who could be trusted by both sides.”

  “Did he admit that he was placing your life in danger?”

  “Yes,” the boy said, gaining a bit of control now, as if his own voice were giving him courage. “He said it was risky but the risk was worth taking. He said he believed you were sincere in negotiating.”

  “So your father gave you the package and sent you out to us and told you nothing else?”

  The boy shook his head. “Nothing.”

  Artkin glanced at Miro but Miro had nothing to say, nothing to ask.

  “Tell me what you know of this—this affair.”

  “I know that you’re holding the kids on the bus. It’s been on radio and television. That’s where I learned about it. My father’s been busy all day, at Delta and out here. He came home once to see if I was all right and to tell me not to worry. They were worried at first that some of the kids whose fathers are officers at Delta might be kidnapped. He told me to stay in the house. They sent a guard to the house to watch the place.”

  “You stayed in your home until your father summoned you in the middle of the night?”

  The boy nodded, chin trembling slightly now.

  “What else did he tell you?

  The boy shook his head. “Nothing.” His eyes grew bright.

  Miro knew that tears would come next. He felt contempt for the boy. He felt contempt for all these American boys and girls who led their selfish, unthinking lives and thought they were so smart and brave until situations developed that showed their true worth. Yet, Kate had not cried.

  “Did your father say whether they were ready to bargain or whether they would attack?”

  The boy shook his head again.

  A pulse throbbed visibly in Artkin’s temple. Miro wondered: Has he seen something I have not seen?

  “It will be bad for you if we learn you are lying,” Artkin said, a quiet menace in his voice. Miro knew that quietness, that menace. “We have ways of finding out about lies. You see this hand?” Artkin held up the maimed left hand, the two finger stubs evil looking in the van’s dim light. “It is a crippled hand but it can still do such things to a body. A tender body like yours.”

  The boy flinched at the word tender. And the tears were very close now, gathering in the corners of his eyes but not yet spilling.

  “I—I don’t know—anything,” he said.

  “I know these generals at Fort Delta, how clever they think they are. They have sent you here for a purpose. They thought your youth would serve its purpose. How do I even know you are the son of a general? But we will find out, of course.”

  Artkin motioned to Miro, indicating he should go to the door of the van.

  “Think about your situation for a few moments,” Artkin told the boy, his voice still calm and deadly. “Think very seriously. Then we shall talk again.”

  He and Miro stepped out of the van into the moisture of morning. Although it had not rained, there was a patina of wetness on the tufts of grass growing through the railroad ties. Morning dew. Artkin glanced at his watch. “Seven thirty,” he said. “We must wait another hour and a half.”

  “Even though Sedeete has been captured?” Miro asked.

  “Yes,” Artkin said. “My orders were to wait until nine o’clock and then take action. It doesn’t matter whether Sedeete is captured or not as far as the signal is concerned. Perhaps someone else will send it. We must wait.”

  “What of the boy?” Miro asked.

  “He may be innocent. He may be what he appears to be—the frightened son of one of those generals. Perhaps they want to bargain. Who knows about Americans? Perhaps they cherish their children more than their agencies.”

  Miro said nothing. He sensed this was a time of waiting. He looked toward the bus. The tape on the windshields was like a soiled bandage. He was still astonished that the girl had tried to drive the bus from the bridge. Who would have thought she could be so daring, so brave? He frowned at the thought. But she had been foolish really to try such a thing. Stroll was now in the bus with the children and the girl. He had been reluctant to let Stroll take command of the bus: the bus was his own responsibility.

  Artkin sighed, blowing air out of the corner of his mouth. A bird’s cry split the air, another answered. Or were these signals? Miro looked to Artkin.

  “When we go back into the van, I will apply the fingers to the boy. It will not take much to tell us whether he is not what he seems to be. If he can tell us nothing further, then we will wait for nine o’clock.”

  Miro wanted to ask: What then? But dared not. He had already asked Artkin more questions today than in all the time he had known him.

  They crouched there a moment longer, letting the morning air caress their flesh. The bird’s cries multiplied, clawing at the air. A breeze rose, shifting the bushes and brush. Were human hands assisting the breeze? How Miro wished to be away from here.

  “Now, the fingers,” Artkin said.

  The boy cracked after thirty-two seconds. But thirty-two seconds of the fingers can be a lifetime, Miro knew. He was, in fact, surprised that the boy had resisted that long a time. He had not looked particularly brave, had seemed frightened to the point of fainting even before the fingers began. But he had held on all those seconds. Miro had ticked them off in his mind, trying to blot out the boy’s screams, remembering when they had tested the fingers on each other in the classroom. Only a taste, the instructor had said. But a small taste was enough: five seconds, six, an excruciating pain that took the breath away, loosened the bowels, penetrating the deepest parts of the body.

  Thirty-two seconds and then the boy, retching almost to the point of vomit, spittle in the corners of his mouth, began to talk. In small bursts, brief gasps, because the pain lingered for a moment or two after the fingers had stopped and there had to be a pause for a gathering of breath, a resting place during which the body repaired itself. And then he told them what Artkin wanted to know. The planned attack. By special forces. At nine thirty.

  The boy spoke in quick, sharp spurts, tripping over words in his eagerness to talk. They are so eager to talk after the fingers, eager to show that they are cooperating, telling everything that must be known so that the fingers won’t be used again. Sometimes they babble because they do not have much to say, they do not have much knowledge to impart. Like the boy. He kept repeating the same words. The telephone call. Nine thirty. Special troops. The telephone ringing in the office. Special troops. Then his voice dribbled into silence, although small sounds continued to issue from him as if he were seeking more words to tell, anything to hold off the fingers.

  “Details,” Artkin commanded. “Details.”

  The boy made a mewing sound like a small animal seeking to please its master but not knowing the master’s language.

  “Are they attacking by air? Will they come from under? From the ends of the bridge?”

  “I don’t know,” the boy said, finding words now. “I don’t know.” His voice desperate.

  And then Artkin became gentle, his old gentleness that even Miro was still unsure of.

  “Take it easy,” he told the boy, voice suddenly tender. “I am sorry you had to be hurt, but it was necessary. You must understand that. Now, tell me. Be calm and tell me all.”

  The change in Artkin’s manner had an abrupt effect on the boy. He sighed, blew air out of the corner of his mouth.

  “I don’t know anything except what I said. They didn’t tell me anything. My father said if I wasn’t told anything, then I couldn’t betray anything. But the telephone rang. I heard him say that the special forces were ready. I could see it was important, the way he listened to the voice on the telephone. He wrote something down. Tried to hide it with his hand. But I saw it. He h
ad written down nine thirty. Then: A.M. after it. I pretended I didn’t see it.”

  “What about helicopters?”

  The boy shook his head.

  “Will they come from under the bridge? Or either end?”

  Again, a shake of the head.

  “You are certain of the time?”

  “Yes, yes.” Eager, eager to be of service.

  “It was written down?”

  “Yes. Ink. A ballpoint pen.”

  “Are you certain you saw it clearly? Perhaps you made a mistake. Perhaps you saw it upside down and the time was six thirty.” But it was already past six thirty.

  Artkin said nothing more, seemed to be pondering the situation. He looked at Miro, nodding his head, a look that said he had learned the truth of the situation. The boy had told the truth. He was certain that the boy was hiding nothing. Miro knew what would happen next. It was time for the fingers again. No one could be trusted in these times. Not even children. Even children could be what they seemed not to be.

  The boy read the message in Artkin’s eyes, saw the reality of what had to be done. He began to whimper, cowering, his chin wobbling.

  “Oh no,” he said.

  Miro turned away, concentrated on a dial on the monitor. The screams as usual were loud and long and lingering. Miro ticked off the seconds. Fifteen, sixteen.

  The boy sagged, clutching Artkin’s knees.

  “What else?” Artkin said. “What else?”

  Seventeen. Eighteen.

  The boy could only gasp, mouth open, a fish mouth out of water, drowning in air.

  “Nothing,” the boy gasped, the word a strangled cry, as if torn from his insides.

  “Good,” Artkin said, releasing him.

  Miro looked at the boy. For the first time, the boy turned his eyes to Miro. Miro had never seen such a look in anyone’s eyes. Was there a word for such a look? It was beyond terror or horror or pain. A look of such anguish, such regret. As if he suddenly saw his true doom, a doom that went beyond the fingers, beyond even death. A look that left the boy hollow, empty. A look that said: What have I done? The look of the betrayer.