Chapter 14
It was forty minutes after lights-out, but Donna wasn’t yet asleep when her TV switched itself on.
The screen cast a watery light across the ceiling. It was as if a ghost had entered the room and was standing at the foot
of her bed. She lifted herself up on her elbows to peer at the Zenith. Her hands were cuffed to her belt, at her hips.
The picture showed a small garage, the floor cleared except for a steel keg filled with ice and water, sitting on top of a
wooden crate. There was a folding table with some monitors and hard drives and keyboards on it. A couple of golf carts had
been parked to one side. Joe Valentine stood next to the steel keg. The camera was on the ceiling, and he had to lift his
head to look into it.
“Good evening, Donna,” Valentine said.
Donna wasn’t the sort of person who yelped, and she almost yelped anyway. She had never heard any sound out of the Zenith
at all, except for the hiss and roar of white noise, which was all she could get when they shut off her feed of Van’s room.
“I know you’re awake,” Valentine said. He gestured to one of the monitors on the folding table, to establish he could see
her. “That’s good. We need to talk. You’ve been holding out on us. You and your brother both. I don’t believe you figured
out how to bring King Sorrow over from the Long Dark, just you and Donovan and Allie. No. You have confederates. Allies. Agents working against us.”
“No,” Donna said. “It’s just us.”
“That’s a lie, and I’m losing patience.”
Somewhere in the garage, a door shut with an echoing bang.
A pair of guards hauled Donovan into the picture: Mr. Salem and the guard who called himself Little Rock, a freckly kid with the lean build of a middleweight boxer and the vacant stare of one who has taken too many shots to the head.
Van was naked, his scrawny thighs trembling.
He put his heels down, making it necessary for Salem and Little Rock to drag him, each of them gripping his arm just above the elbow.
“Don’t do this,” Van said. “Please.”
Joe Valentine gave a nod. Salem and Little Rock hauled him to the edge of the steel keg, bent him over it, and forced his
head into the water. He struggled, spraying both of them, dampening their tight polo shirts.
“There is no one else,” Donna said.
“We know this is a lie,” Valentine said. “And they’re going to hold him under until you give us a name.”
“You’ll kill him.”
“Fortunately, we have two of you. Which makes one of you expendable.”
“Do you want me to make a name up?” Donna cried.
Valentine didn’t reply. He only stared blandly into the camera while they held Van’s head under.
“There is no one else,” Donna shouted.
“Mr. Salem,” Valentine said. “Mr. Little Rock?”
They pulled Donovan up out of the water. He coughed, choked, and spat, trembling convulsively. Joe Valentine turned to him.
“Donnie,” Valentine said. “That was only a minute and a half. Next time you go in for three. I’m going to ask you a question.
You need to answer me truthfully.” Joe Valentine reached over to the folding table and tapped a key on one of the keyboards,
and suddenly the feed was muted.
She could see Valentine speaking. Donovan replied. But the picture quality wasn’t good enough to read lips, even if she knew
how to. Valentine nodded slowly, thoughtfully, then gestured with his chin. Donovan was shoved back into the water. His feet
skidded and slipped on the slick floor. His gaunt butt cheeks flexed convulsively. Joe Valentine casually tapped a key on
his keyboard. The sound returned.
“Donnie was very helpful,” he said. “I hope you can be helpful too. He just gave me two names. If you give me the same names, this ends now. If you don’t, we’re going to hold him in there for the full three minutes.
After that it will be four and a half. Do you think he can hold his breath for six? I don’t.”
Donna had wanted twin telepathy her whole life, but never more than she did right then. She felt as if she couldn’t breathe
herself.
“Elwood Hondo,” she cried. “And Philip Aylesford. Take him out, you motherfucker. I’ll kill you. I’ll kill all of you.”
Valentine said, “Interesting. Van said Stephen Earle and Jeffrey Tweedy. I don’t think there’s any real person with the name
Jeff Tweedy—that isn’t even a good lie. Although not as ridiculous as someone named Hondo. You’re going to tell me, Donna.
Who’s working with you? Who else has the power to contact King Sorrow?”
“He’s coming, isn’t he?” Donna said, with a sudden, desperate savagery. “He knows your fucking name and he’s coming for you.
For all of you. I don’t need to kill you. Because he will.”
“You’re going to fucking tell!” Valentine shrieked.
“Joe,” Salem said, glancing over his shoulder. The water bubbled furiously around Van’s head. “That’s three minutes, I don’t
think—”
“Keep him under!” Valentine stabbed a finger at the camera, at Donna. “You’re going to watch your fucking brother drown. He’s going to die because you let him, and then we’re going to do the same to—”
She heard the echoing bang of the door closing somewhere off camera. A shadow appeared, a big one, stretching across the concrete
floor, and for an instant Donna thought, It’s King Sorrow, you motherfucker, and he’s going to skin you like a deer. It wasn’t, though. It was Mr. Francis, moving swiftly across the floor, two more men with him. Little Rock and Salem looked
around . . . although they still held Van’s head in the water. Salem looked like a kid who has been caught writing dirty words
on the side of the school without realizing a teacher has been standing behind him the whole time. Little Rock just stared,
jaw slack, eyes empty.
“Let him up,” Donna hissed. “Let him up.”
Valentine touched that key on his keyboard and the picture went silent. She saw him adjust his glasses and say something to
Francis. Francis replied. Over at the keg, Van had stopped kicking.
At last, with a show of great reluctance, Valentine gestured toward the keg. Little Rock jerked Donovan out of the water.
His head lolled, and when they lowered him to the floor, he wasn’t moving. Francis said something else and Valentine casually
touched a button on his computer. The picture on Donna’s screen jumped to a blizzard of white static and the TV roared with
white noise, the sound of annihilation, of madness.