“. . . Sorry, Sisto . . . This is gonna sting a little . . .”
5
I WAKE UP to searing pain and complete darkness, sensing another human presence as palpably as heat.
Resisting the impulse to call out to Carme or anyone, I focus on my ankles lashed together beneath the covers. My wrists are bound, my arms barely bent and miserably tethered to the wall behind my head.
I have no idea where I am but it isn’t the Point Comfort Inn. I’m not in my own bed, that’s for sure, on my back staring up at the black void of the ceiling, scarcely able to move. It would be next to impossible to defend myself, I couldn’t kick or throw an elbow, much less a fist.
Concentrating on my hands, I’m aware of a tingling sensation, more numbness than usual in my scarred right index finger. Nervously rubbing it with my thumb, I trace the contours of the finger pad I almost sliced off three years ago. Holding my breath, I listen, not hearing a sound except the wind. But I sense someone.
“Who are you and what do you want?” I sound surprisingly bold when I call out.
No answer, and images are rushing back to me of my sister inside room 1. Telling me it’s now or never. Drugging me. Everything deleted. Disjointed. Fragmented sounds and sensations flurrying through my head like bright confetti.
“Who’s there?” I’m thirsty, as stiff as rigor mortis.
No response, and I will myself to stay calm as I feel aggression coming on, simmering beneath my skin.
“Hello?” I clear my throat. “Hello!” I tug against a pair of tough plastic restraints, remembering them in my splintered thoughts.
Black double looped, double locking, the same type of law enforcement plastic zip ties I keep in my protective service’s office and truck. And I’m tripping on a kaleidoscope of flashbacks . . .
. . . Plastic trays and cut-out gray foam precisely arranged with small tools, glass vials . . .
. . . Scores of tiny liquid-filled transparent tubes with black caps in a wire storage rack . . .
. . . Boxes of hypodermic needles . . . 10 gauge and smaller . . .
“HELLO?” I shout aggressively this time.
Silence, and I’m startled by anger boiling up from deep inside.
“Now would be a very good time to explain yourself . . . !” I violently tug at my restraints.
“Easy does it, don’t hurt yourself,” Dick Melville’s voice is shockingly close. “How are we feeling other than cranky?”
“What are you doing to me?” I scream at him.
The snap of a switch, and he appears in a cloud of light from a Williamsburg-style brass floor lamp. Ensconced in his wing chair throne like God. Dressed in Air Force camouflage embroidered with 4 stars on his chest.
“You have no right . . . ! Cut me loose or . . . or I’ll . . . ! Or else . . . !” I sputter and stammer, mortified and furious.
“Or else what, Calli?” he stares at me, handsome in a severe way, broad shouldered and tall with a platinum buzz cut, his strong features sharply sculpted like Mount Rushmore. “What will you do? Take a swing at me again? Dash your drink in my face? Call me names and say you don’t respect or believe in me or the cause anymore?”
“It wasn’t conscious or intentional. What cause?”
“I made the mistake of freeing your hands only once.”
“Obviously, I didn’t know what I was doing,” I protest.
“Do you remember saying you hate me?”
“Certainly not,” more contritely than I feel.
“Calling me a fake and a phony?”
“I’m very sorry. What cause are you talking about?”
“The one you resent me for. Your cause. What you and Carme are here to do,” he says as if he made us.
“It would be easier to discuss all this if you cut me loose,” I let him know, peering up at the details of my bondage, low tech, practical, well engineered.
I’m suspicious about who’s responsible because it wasn’t Dick. For an astronaut, he’s surprisingly all thumbs with tools and knots, and has an aversion to water sports and boats. Therefore, I doubt he’s to blame for marine rigging that’s prevented me from attacking someone or escaping. And it may sound sexist to say but I detect a thoughtful, no-nonsense female touch.
Whoever strung me up is good with gadgets and resourceful at fixing things, bringing to mind Mom’s string games and origami. Not just the usual cat’s cradle and Jacob’s ladder but NASA-related sleight of hand. I envision her quick fingers fashioning three-dimensional stars and planets of yarn and twine, or folding paper into miniature expandable habitats and solar panels. If someone had to tie me up, it may as well be her, sort of a different spin on a bedside manner.
Explaining why my bindings are humanely loose, my wrists and ankles protectively wrapped in bandages to prevent abrasions and bruises. The short length of nylon rope attaching my flex-cuffs to the wall is the same kind Mom buys at Full Throttle Marine. Hazard yellow, quarter inch, double braid, and she’s partial to simple bowline knots like the one anchoring the rope to a Sea-Dog eyebolt.
“Seriously, Dick. You can cut me loose. I promise I’ll behave,” sounding more reasonable than I sure as hell-o feel.
“You can throw quite a right hook, I’ll give you that,” he holds up his hands, bruised from deflecting my blows. “That’s what I got if I cut you free,” confirming that he hasn’t been managing me alone.
“. . . Think of it as an upgrade to your programming, dear . . . ,” Mom’s voice distantly in my fractured memory . . .
“We’ve got a lot to go over,” Dick says as I crane my neck, scanning my surroundings. “As you may have gathered, the timing for implementation was abrupt. Urgent and improvised due to unexpected events. It wasn’t ideal even if you don’t recall most of what went on, including any discomfort you might have felt,” implying that some of what was done to me must have hurt like crap.
“I know something’s happened only because I’m here,” I’m doing my best to keep my temper in check. “And it would be helpful to know what day of the week it is,” as I recognize the patterned brown carpet, the dark wooden paneling.