“Except for one thing,” I remind him of reality. “I talked to Mom while I was driving home 4 mornings ago. I also talked to you and Conn Lacrosse on a CIA line, talked to all of you while I was in my truck,” as it flickers through my thoughts that Dick and Mom might have been together.
Just because caller ID showed she was ringing me up from the farm doesn’t mean that’s where she was physically located at the time. It wouldn’t be hard for her to spoof our home number, making it appear that’s what she was calling me on. When in fact she was with Dick, headed to the Point Comfort Inn to help implant my SIN and oversee the fallout.
“There would be an electronic record of our communications,” I continue making my case. “Plus, traffic cameras all over the place would have picked me up. You know as well as I do that I’ve left an electronic trail if someone wants to find it,” I add. “And it sure would be nice if you’d cut me loose.”
“You’ve left a trail, and if anyone checked, it would show that you have the timelines confused,” he says what I know is a lie while ignoring my humiliation and discomfort. “The calls you’re referring to were approximately 10 hours earlier. On Tuesday night, December 3rd,” and there’s no telling what metadata has been changed to fit his disinformation.
00:00:00:00:0
A TOP MILITARY leader and close adviser to the president of the United States, Dick can tamper with traffic and security videos, GPS logs, satellite images, whatever he needs. Laws and boundaries don’t matter when bad individuals and rogue nations routinely violate them.
“What are we talking about, Special K?” I inquire, constantly rearranging my position on the bed, my joints aching like a bad tooth. “You know, the discussions we’ve had about its ability to bend space-time? To alter the effects of gravitational waves on the brain?”
I don’t mean to sound sarcastic, and what I don’t say is the obvious. That Special K, or ketamine, is also a common date-rape drug associated with amnesia and hallucinations. Dick has no reply, won’t confirm or deny that for days I’ve been subjected to a steady drip of what’s basically a horse tranquilizer.
“Say what you will about the story you’re feeding everybody, we both know I didn’t get here on my own two feet,” I keep pushing him with questions while he stares at me from his wing chair. “Who was hauling me around like a sack of potatoes?”
As physically powerful as he is, it would be nothing for him to carry me. And imagining it makes me squirm and feel slightly hateful.
“Would you say you’re more aggressive?” he asks.
“Than what?” Pinning him with my eyes as he leans forward, lightly touching his fingertips together like Freud.
“What about more hostile?”
“Why wouldn’t I be? And it sure would be nice if you’d let me go.”
“Tell me the last thing you remember.”
“I’ve already told you.”
“Tell me again. What do you remember about the last 4 days?”
And it’s like staring into the vacuum of space surrounded by flickering objects light-years away . . .
Insights and snippets of data here and there . . .
Shards of scenes . . .
Fragments of conversations . . .
Disconnected recollections of “Reveille” and “Taps” blaring over the Air Force base intercom . . .
Sound bites of supersonic jets thundering and screaming . . .
“I know you’re uncomfortable,” but Dick doesn’t sound bothered by my degradation and misery. “How’s the pain on a scale of 1 to 10?”
“I’m trying not to think about it. Please don’t remind me.”
“Fair enough.” He gets up from his chair. “Are you ready to act civil?” digging into a pocket of his Airman Battle Uniform.
“Of course,” and I’m plenty civil considering circumstances that most people would consider sadistic and criminal.
But I’m not going to say any such thing, common sense dictating that it’s suicidal to challenge the warden. There’s no point in goading my captor into flaunting his power and control more than he already has.
“It’s just us at the moment,” Dick indicates that others have been in and out of Dodd Hall, including my mother, I’m all but certain. “I don’t want to explain a broken nose. And I don’t need you hurting yourself with a sharp object again,” alluding to my accident while under his command in Colorado Springs.
He unfolds a wicked steel blade as if he’s about to take me out like Jack the Ripper. Approximately 15.2 centimeters (6 inches) long, serrated and sharp, it’s not so different from what I was using to slice open bagels at the Cheyenne Mountain military complex when I almost lost a body part. And I nervously rub my scarred index finger again.
“Hold still,” he says, and I feel his breath on my hair, his uniform sleeve brushing against me. “As you’re probably gathering, I’ve had some help while you’re here, haven’t been on my own,” firmly holding my wrists as he gently cuts.
“Who?”
“I realize it’s disconcerting not recalling certain recent events.” As usual, he doesn’t answer what I asked. “Especially for someone like you who has a near photographic memory,” and the scent of his musky aftershave makes me self-conscious and nervous.
I don’t move a muscle as he saws, staring up at his powerful arms, his ropy veins.
“There we go,” he announces, and I lower my hands to my lap, scarcely able to bend my elbows. “I know this hasn’t been fun.”
“What’s not fun is the information blackout,” I massage myself, stretching some more.
“As the old adage goes, what you don’t know won’t hurt you,” he pulls the covers off my legs, the air cool on my bare feet. “It’s not always true but in some cases.”
“It seems that what may or may not hurt me is one more thing I should have a say about,” I unwrap my wrists, the green gauze self-adhering and stretchy, the kind Mom keeps in the medicine cabinet at home.