The Musician

by Douglas Gardham

  “Look at this, for instance,” the voice said, regaining a calmer mien. “I can read about kidnapping and confinement, about torture and killing. Picture it vividly in my mind. Plan it meticulously. Even write it down in a detailed plan. I could even role-play it. Ah, maybe that would be a little difficult, given the material. And yes, I’d be prepared and well intentioned, but that’s all. I’ve imagined what to do and what will happen. But I won’t learn a thing about kidnapping and confining a person against his or her will until I actually do it. Until I’m in the real situation, I really know almost nothing. It’s all talk and no action—sound familiar? I wonder what the ratio of bullshit to action is. A hundred to one? A thousand to one? Who knows? But I’m going to find out. When this is over, I’ll know what it’s like to kidnap a person, confine a person against his or her will, and bring another life to its end. I’m going to fail along the way, and when I do, I’m going to learn.”

  The electronic voice stopped. Ethan closed his eyes, terrified. God, if you’re there, please help me.

  He waited.

  “So an introduction is what we’ll call it,” the voice said. “An introduction to life in captivity—a confined life. I like that. An introduction may, and often does, include an example of what’s being introduced or the subject matter, but it’s still an introduction.”

  The voice paused again. Ethan blinked. The black boots were still there and seemed very real.

  “I feel good about this, Ethan—really good.”

  Ethan was sure he heard the clicking sound made when the tongue was flicked across the roof of the mouth—real but electronic.

  “What about you, Ethan? How does the actor turned musician feel?”

  The voice stopped, and the last words churned inside Ethan’s head with the accompaniment of the overture in the background. Focused on not moving, he tried to recall where he’d heard “the actor turned musician” before. In the hospital maybe? He knew only that he had. But the phrase brought something else that wouldn’t leave him alone. He knew hurt was coming. How did he know—precognitive fear? Maybe. The music continued as he tried to decide whether he was obeying by not moving or disobeying by not answering—which he couldn’t. Rationale was not a partner here. Would knowing who had said those words help him?

  “Aha! You are listening and learning,” said the voice. “You passed. You know something? I’m going to add to this story. You know, in grade school … What am I saying? Of course you know in grade school. We’re the same age. The textbooks we read from, and hated, often had questions at the end of a chapter to test us little people on whether we’d paid attention, which most of us hadn’t. I’m going to change my plan here. You see, Ethan, all plans change when we start to do. Until we start, we’re only imagining. I imagined all this, but that was different from having you, my captee, present. You know, I’ve wondered about that word. Is it really a word? It’s used in the book I’m reading, but I can’t find it in the dictionary. But it does work! I’m your captor, and you’re my captee. It’s beautiful, no?”

  The voice stopped again. The music changed to Steve Winwood’s “Higher Love.” The Release played that song. He sang it. It usually made him think of sunshine, wind, and freedom, but he felt sickened now to think those things might never be real to him again. His stomach turned. Don’t think.

  “So I’m going to add a test question at the end of each lesson.”

  The voice seemed excited, talking quickly at a higher pitch.

  “Yep. And that question will be for you, Ethan—my captee.”

  There was a momentary pause.

  “My captee!” the voice shouted, the electronics crackling.

  Like a gunshot going off close by, it startled Ethan. His legs shifted, as did the contents of his stomach, which moved up into his throat. His cheeks bulged, pressing against whatever covered his mouth, as his vomit erupted. There was no exit but through his nose. His eyes closed with the sudden pressure as he gagged. Pain exploded in his head as the hot, acidic contents of his stomach exited through his nose. He opened his eyes to see a brown mess soiling the green carpet in front of his face; his head was still fixed to the floor.

  “Oh fuck!” the voice screamed. “You moved! I thought you were learning, you retard!”

  Ethan’s left eye was open as the puddle of puke from his nose grew. A large knife blade flashed before his eye.

  He started a silent scream.

  CHAPTER 67

  Left Eye Stays Open

  The knife blade moved quickly, slicing an opening into whatever was covering his mouth. A prick of pain lit up his lip, but it was nothing compared to the exit of vomit through his nose.

  “What is wrong with you?” demanded the voice. It wasn’t a question. “You’re like a pathetic little girl who ate too many SweeTarts from the candy store. You’re not choking to death on my watch.”

  The hole cut in the material was not big. Some of the puke left in his mouth extruded through the sliced opening like diarrhea.

  “One minute, I think you’re learning,” the voice said, “and the next, you make me lose all confidence that you have any ability to learn whatsoever. Is that why you couldn’t finish your first year of engineering?”

  The voice sounded angry, as if what was happening were Ethan’s fault.

  “You’re weak, Ethan. Do you hear me? W-e-a-k. Weak.”

  Gary Numan’s “Cars” started to play in the background. Ethan couldn’t help but notice the vocals’ resemblance to the voice speaking to him and recalled the lyrics “Nothing seems right in cars.”

  Ethan could see the shiny blade of the knife. The part of the polished steel not covered in brown puke glistened. Fear was turning him inside out, yet he could do nothing to hedge it. Expecting the knife to slice into his neck next, he prayed. The blade remained not four inches from his nose, as if the voice wanted him to inhale the smell of his own gastric juices. His sinuses burned from what had gone through and now blocked his nasal cavity. He could take the pain, but watching the razor-sharp blade in front of his face, held by some lunatic who seemed beyond anything approaching rational, would not be bearable for long.

  “Something just occurred to me, Ethan,” the voice said, calm and smooth again, like the voice of someone sharing an opinion on a new flavor of ice cream. “This hunter’s knife is your savior. Without this knife, you might have choked. That duct tape is wrapped on pretty tight. Nothing is coming through without some help. Never mind the piece of sock that’s stuffed in there.”

  Ethan didn’t dare move. His left eye stayed fixed on the knife blade.

  “I take it by your stare that you agree,” the voice said. “We’ll keep this baby nearby so you can pay homage to it.”

  The knife disappeared from Ethan’s field of sight, as did the black boots. It was all he could do to suppress puking again. Fire seemed to burn behind his eyes. Not seeing the boots and knife, he focused on breathing. He tried blowing through his nose. It hurt, but he managed a small amount of air, as with a cold. Breathing in was a different matter. He breathed in through the hole cut in the tape covering his mouth. He did his best to swallow some of what had come up and stayed in his throat, careful not to trigger puking again. It burned in his throat. He tried again to suck air through his nose but stopped, starting to gag on what was in his throat. He breathed out through the hole in the tape as the polished black boots reappeared, stopping inches from his face.

  “You’ve made quite a mess, Ethan,” the voice said. It sounded closer this time, as if the owner were bending down close to his head. Was the voice scrutinizing him to see if he’d moved? “I barely have the stomach for it. Never was good at watching someone vomit. When did you last eat?”

  Ethan wasn’t about to move or do anything beyond staying stock-still, but his brain wouldn’t stop. When did I last eat? It seemed eons ago. The question wasn’t intended as real conve
rsation, but Ethan struggled to remember. Like his nose, his brain was clogged, only with different thoughts. Fear swirled among them all. The band had been staying in a cheap motel somewhere in Ottawa. They had planned to go to Swiss Chalet, but Greg hadn’t wanted to. But where had they gone? Why couldn’t he remember?

  Greg had wanted a burger. The van had stunk of weed. Ethan had been worried that Greg wouldn’t be able to play at Bogart’s he was so high. Greg was in descent, using all the time. They’d all been hungry. Then it came back. Not really wanting another burger, as their diets were mostly fast food, Ethan had ordered onion rings, coleslaw, and a tea to go.

  “Just so you know, eating’s going to be a little different,” the voice said, bringing Ethan back to where he was. “I’m going to leave you now with one simple instruction. Don’t move!”

  The scream was horrific, but somehow he kept himself still.

  “Very good, Ethan. There may be hope for you yet. I’ll know if you’ve moved. Moving will not be tolerated!”

  The voice was loud and again sounded angry. There was a longer pause this time. Then the voice seemed to settle back into its instructional tone.

  “Not moving will be rewarded and will prove to me that you have learned. We will celebrate.”

  Another song registered with him. Joe Walsh was singing “Life’s Been Good.” It was as if the music were making fun of him. Maybe that was the intention.

  Ethan prayed again for the voice to leave. He needed some time to put some semblance to this unimaginable situation, if that was even possible.

  “Remember, Ethan,” the voice added, “I am now your hope, your fear, and your truth. You’ve messed with things long enough!”

  The voice’s scream was piercing, but Ethan didn’t move. It was as if he were ready for the scream. The nightmare monologue couldn’t end quickly enough.

  The black boots again moved out of his sight, somewhere above his head. He was certain he could hear the sound each boot made pressing into the green carpet. They stopped somewhere behind his head.

  “And, Ethan,” the synthesized voice said from behind him, “there are consequences when one takes something from someone else.”

  Ethan had only a second to think about what the voice had said before the pain struck the base of his neck. The force jarred his shoulders forward, but he was restrained by whatever held his head to the floor.

  “You will only dream of freedom now,” said the voice, coming closer. A cloth covered his face. The smell of sweet rot came again, followed by darkness as Ethan lost consciousness.

  CHAPTER 68

  Eyes Open—Second Time

  “It’s about time,” he heard. The voice was familiar yet unwanted. His head ached. His right shoulder ached. It seemed as if a stick were in his mouth. He tried to lift his left arm but couldn’t. His eyes flashed open as he remembered where he was. A dry brown puddle lay in front of his face.

  The nightmare was real. He could see it.

  There was no sign of the black boots, only the four wood legs.

  “Have a drink, Ethan,” the electronic voice said.

  Ethan tried to push out whatever was in his mouth and then realized what it was. His mouth was still covered, but nothing was stuffed in it. What he’d thought was a stick was a straw. His tongue touched it. It was in a white bowl of liquid. His throat was dry and burned when he swallowed. His nose was full. His nostrils felt crusty, as if he’d had a runny nose that had dried.

  At once, he was thirsty. His tongue, dry and sore, found the tip of the straw again. He could drink. He sucked on the straw. He was swallowing before he tasted the burning alcohol that came back up his throat, gagging him. The vodka followed the path of least resistance. Some exited through his mouth and the hole cut in the tape, but the rest was forced up through his nose. The agony was stupefying. A stifled groan came from somewhere inside his head. His sinuses screamed as if fire had erupted in the space behind his eyes.

  In his agony, he heard the opening to Boston’s “More Than a Feeling” play to the macabre scene around him. He wanted to cry.

  “Can’t really handle your liquor, can you?” the eerie electronic voice asked over the music. The distorted titter-chuckle returned, as irksome as an unreachable itch under a cast.

  Ethan lay in wait as the rawness of the pain in his head began to subside. Though clearer, breathing in through his nose was like rubbing sandpaper against the sensitive tissue of his nasal passages. Each breath burned, the pain relenting only when he stopped. Breathing through his mouth eased the discomfort but was not without effort through the small hole in the tape.

  “I thought a rock and roller like yourself could handle his booze,” the horrific voice said. The person behind the voice seemed to be enjoying the discomfort he was inflicting on his victim. Ethan was doing everything he could to keep his terror in check, but he needed fluid. He didn’t know how long he’d gone without drinking.

  Think of something else, Ethan.

  He forced himself to think about his physical position. He’d been lying on his right side the whole time—he didn’t know how long. His right arm was still underneath him and numb. He wondered how long the blood circulation in his arm could be interrupted before permanent damage took place. Was that even possible? With his left arm at his side, he could feel the weight of what he thought was his right arm, figuring his wrists were tied together. Part of his right shoulder was sore, but most of it was numb to any real pain. The area between his shoulders hurt from where he’d been kicked. His legs were bent and tied together at the ankles. Something bound his calves and thighs to the carpeted floor. He didn’t attempt to move them. There was something around his waist too. Because of how his head was fastened to the floor, he couldn’t see any of this. His mouth was covered with duct tape, which seemed wrapped around his head. It felt like a mask stuck to his skin. Straps of some sort held his head to the floor. He couldn’t move it; he didn’t even try. The electric voice demanded he not move. Fear of more pain, or death, kept him rigid.

  “That was pretty mean, wasn’t it?” the voice said, now sounding empathetic in its electronics from somewhere behind him. “But if you were me, you would have found it hilarious too.”

  The Electric Light Orchestra’s “Mr. Blue Sky” began tapping in the background. For an instant, he thought it might be a good song for the Release to cover, and he was then amazed he could think of such a thing—an instant of hope squeezed into a mass of fear. He came back to describing his situation in his head.

  The black boots reappeared—not as close as before and sideways now. Then they turned in front of the chair legs and stopped, as if the voice were sitting down. Ethan tried to see as much as he could. Midway up the voice’s shins, black denim pant legs were tucked into the tops of the laced and polished boots. Army issue, he thought. His vomit on the green carpet in front of his face had dried into a shape much like that of Greenland as seen on a topographical map of the world. He guessed a couple of hours had elapsed since he’d vomited. Looking beyond his mark of Greenland, the black boots, and the wood legs, he could see the lower portion of what looked like a freshly painted beige cinder-block wall.

  “Well, Ethan,” the voice said, again interrupting his mental descriptions, “you’ve made it through the first twelve hours. Congratulations.”

  Ethan stayed still. The metronomic clapping of “Mr. Blue Sky” in the background made him picture a deserted road lined on both sides with smiling male dancers with Dixieland hats and white canes, tapping their shoes to the beat of the music. On the road, he could see a crawling, desperate man, starved and thirsty, being ignored by the happy dancers. The foot tapping brought back the soreness at the bottom of his neck and an urgent need to pee. His want for relief soon outweighed his ability to think of anything else.

  Roxy Music’s Bryan Ferry singing “Love Is the Drug” was next to distract him—but only
for a moment. Every bass note seemed to add pressure to his bladder.

  The black boots pressed into the carpet in front of him. The voice was rising to its feet.

  “Ethan, how are you feeling?” the voice said over Ferry singing, “Stitched up tight; can’t break free.”

  The voice behind the electronic one seemed kind, as if it were speaking to a lost and frightened child in a department store.

  Ethan didn’t dare move or blink. Another test.

  “How are you feeling!” the voice screamed, as if the question were a bomb the synthesized voice had decided to detonate.

  The shock of loudness was so sudden it caused Ethan to wince and involuntarily close his eye.

  “This just isn’t going to do,” the voice said in professor-like mode, as if addressing a class of students who’d all failed a recent exam.

  Ethan’s eye opened as soon as he realized he’d closed it. The black boots were on the move and stopped in line with Ethan’s waist. Before he registered what was happening, his jeans were being undone. He tried not to move, but was uncertain what the voice was doing.

  “You’re not learning, Ethan!” the voice barked. The pull on the front of his pants stopped. “This is aggravating, you know. My patience has limits!”

  Ethan blinked with the scream. The boots moved again.

  He never saw the kick, but the pain was excruciating. Fury overtook him as he fought against his restraints to strike back. He was unaware of where the pain was; he only knew it was there. He screamed against the tape across his mouth, trying to shake free from his immovable position. Instinctively knowing he had to get control of himself, he felt his left arm tugging against his right. Given its current numbness, he could have broken his right arm and never known it. He had to stop tugging and stop moving. Then agony struck his abdomen. He tasted blood at the tiny hole in the duct tape over his mouth. He opened his eye to see blood on the carpet in front of him, not knowing where it had come from. Though his nose was clogged, he blew out anyway, sending a spume of snot and vomit to the carpet and a shock of pain to his forehead, as if the knife had been jabbed between his eyes.