Chapter 5
PROCTOR WAS DOZING WHEN a soft noise near the far wall brought him instantly to his senses. He remained motionless except for his eyes, which he slowly opened. Now there came another sound: the whisper of a door opening over a soft surface.
Still motionless, Proctor scanned the far wall with half-lidded eyes. It remained utterly black, as it had since he first woke.
The sound stopped. Had it been his imagination? No—Proctor prided himself on having little to no imagination.
“Good,” a voice sounded out of the dark. “You’re awake.”
The voice belonged to the utility man with the metal binder.
There was the noise of a door shutting, then the room was bathed in brilliant light. Instinctively, Proctor shut his eyes and turned away, but not before he caught a glimpse of the man, standing against the far wall, observing him.
The man remained there, waiting, while Proctor’s eyes adjusted to the light. In one hand he held a flashlight with a blue-purple lens. Ultraviolet: used to detect certain minerals, dyes, and bodily fluids. Why?
Now that the room was illuminated, Proctor took a quick opportunity to observe it.
He was in a padded cell. There were no windows, furniture, ventilation ducts—nothing save for a high ceiling of fluorescent bulbs behind a thick wire grille, and a small round hole in the corner of the floor.
The door was padded as well, no knob, only a keyhole.
The padding that covered everything save the ceiling was of a coarse, tough material, well bolted into the frame of the structure.
Next, Proctor examined the man’s face. He was in his early thirties, fit, tall, and powerful, more or less like Proctor in age, build, and height. Blue-eyed, blond, wearing a zipped and buttoned black jumpsuit, along with slip-on rubber loafers, also black, and nitrile gloves.
Keeping well out of range, the man opened a director’s chair he’d been holding in his other hand, placed it on the floor, then sat down as if to enjoy a show.
He remained silent, looking Proctor over with a curious intensity. Proctor, also silent, took several calming breaths and resisted speculation. All would be made clear soon enough.
“You’re awfully quiet,” the man said.
Proctor did not respond.
“You’ll be here for a little while,” the man continued.
“A few days, at least. I’m no sadist, and I want you to be comfortable.
You must be hungry—I’ll bring you food. Over there—” he nodded over one shoulder—“in the corner, you’ll find a drain for your toilet needs.
It’s plastic, glued five feet around and ten feet into the ground with a cyanoacrylate adhesive, so if you try to pry it free, you’ll just end up breaking your fingernails. ”
He paused, as if to examine what effect his words were having on Proctor.
“As long as you behave, I’ll unchain your feet from the wall, but you’ll remain hobbled.
Your hands are tied loosely, so your arms should be comfortable.
I imagine you’ll spend some time looking for a way out—or, perhaps, some weapon you can use.
Go ahead—I won’t try to stop you. You’ll realize soon enough it’s a waste of time.
The food will come through that opening at the bottom of the door.
Once I’ve brought it, I’ll keep the lights on for fifteen minutes—that should be sufficient for you to eat and empty your bladder.
Be sure you do both, because the darkness will return and you may be left alone for a long time. Any questions?”
Proctor said nothing.
“Like I said, I won’t stop you from seeking a way to escape.
But I’m going to lay down a few ground rules.
First, you must not injure yourself in any way.
Second, I expect you to eat and drink everything I bring you—no hunger strikes.
The food will be good. Those are the only two rules—no self-harm, and eat well.
I’d advise against breaking either. As I said, I’m no sadist… but my discipline is extremely harsh.”
Once again, the man ran his eyes lingeringly over Proctor’s form.
Proctor merely stared back. Given the calm, unmodulated voice in which these instructions were recited, he initially suspected his captor presented with symptoms of blunted affect.
But by the time he was finished speaking, Proctor revised that presumption: flat affect.
“You might wonder why, among the rules, I didn’t warn you against trying to harm me.
That’s because I don’t need to. I’m in full control.
When I leave, the lock on your ankle chain will disengage, allowing you to move around.
Feel free to do so. You’re a fit man—you might find exercise a good way to pass the time.
“I’ll bring your dinner now. It will come through beneath the door. Remember—eat everything. Don’t try to starve yourself.” He stood, picked up the chair, folded it, and turned toward the door.
Proctor had planned on saying nothing at all. But now he changed his mind. “So—I assume the op was a success? You got what you wanted from the crocodile attaché case?”
The man stopped. “What was that?”
“Or was the woman your main object, and the case just a decoy?”
The man looked at him quizzically. “You must have hit your head harder than I realized,” he said.
He let himself out; the door shut with a clang of steel, and Proctor heard the bolts shoot.
A moment later, the lock on his ankle chain clicked off.
He stood up, glad to be on his feet, and shuffled around the padded room, ankles loosely hobbled together with a steel cable and cuffs, but no longer attached to the wall.
A few minutes later, dinner was slid in through a slightly raised section along the bottom edge of the door, on a cut-down cardboard tray with fold-out sleeves.
It held a liter of water in a bottle on its side, a turkey sandwich, and Jell-O. There was no cutlery of any sort.
Proctor exhaled, staring at the food. He had little appetite and wondered at the emphasis the man had put on eating.
But still more curious was genuine puzzlement the man had shown when reacting to his question.
His abduction, it seemed, had nothing to do with EMT.
Was it, perhaps, connected somehow to his past life?
But this seemed too odd, too complicated, too random.
Any old enemies of Proctor would know better than to engage him like this—a double tap to the head would have sufficed.
He went back over the interaction with his jailer, keeping this new understanding in mind.
And as he did so, something began to dawn: the friendly, dead-looking eyes, the flat affect, the strange emphasis on food…
The person who had captured him was clinically insane.