Forty Words for Sorrow

52

KEITH LONDON DREAMED HE was swimming in a bright green pool, deep in a jungle, where monkeys sat in a row upon a low-hanging branch and drank thirstily with cupped hands. Except for the ripples that spread outward from the monkeys’ hands, the surface was tranquil as jade. The smell of water was strong.

He opened his eyes. That smell of water. Was it from rain? He could hear the sound of rain pelting against wood.

His head felt as if it had been split open from crown to nape; the pain made him nauseous. He turned his head slightly and nearly vomited. Wherever he was, the place was very dark, very damp and very cold. He was dressed now, in clothes he did not remember putting on—a torn sweater and jeans—and they were not enough to keep out the cold. Off to one side, a space heater glowed a fierce scarlet, but its heat did not reach him. Eric Fraser was about ten feet away, setting a camera on a tripod.

I’m on a table. They have me on a table in a basement somewhere. That damp smell. I’m near a lake. The damp has a definite full-time smell. And yes, that is rain—rain blowing against boarded-up windows. Huge pipes criss-crossed the ceiling overhead, disappearing into darkness. Of course. The pumphouse.

He tried to move, but his arms were strapped tightly to his sides and to the table. The only thing he could move was his head. Eric was concentrating on levelling the camera, bending down to adjust first one leg of the tripod, then another. Try to reason with him, reach him before he goes into frenzy like he did on that videotape.

“Listen, Eric,” Keith said quietly. “My girlfriend will be missing me by now. I told her where I am, who I was staying with. It was in the letter I wrote.”

This was ignored. Eric Fraser adjusted yet another leg of the tripod, humming to himself, and then, apparently satisfied, began pulling objects out of a duffle bag—Keith’s duffle bag—and laying them out on a wooden counter.

Keith tried not to look. He concentrated on controlling his voice. “Eric, I could get you money. I’m not rich, but I could get you money from somewhere. My family is quite well off. So is my girlfriend’s. They would pay you something, I’m sure they would.”

It was as if Eric Fraser heard nothing of this. He pulled something from the bag—a pair of needle-nose pliers—and then he stood over Keith for a moment with glistening ferret’s eyes, clicking the pliers open and shut just above his nose.

“We could arrange the payments so no one finds out who you are. It should be possible. It wouldn’t have to be a single payment, necessarily. There’s no reason why it couldn’t go on for some time. Please, Eric. Will you listen, Eric? You could make thirty or forty thousand dollars. Maybe fifty. Think what that could buy over the years. Why don’t you let me call them, Eric?”

Eric Fraser pulled a paper bag from the duffle bag and unwrapped a sandwich. There was a sudden smell of tuna fish. He sat in the darkness, blocking the glow from the space heater. A bone in his jaw clicked every time he chewed. After a while he said, “I wish Edie would get here with the lights.” He tapped a large battery on the floor with the toe of his boot. “Lighting will be better in this one. Hate it when you can’t see what’s going on.”

“Think about it, Eric. You could be quite well off. You wouldn’t have to work. You could buy things. You could travel. You could go where you want, do what you want. What’s the use in just killing me? It won’t get you anywhere. You’ll get caught sooner or later. Why don’t you get some money out of this at least? Wouldn’t that be better than just killing me?”

Eric finished his sandwich and threw the wrapping on the floor. “I wish Edie would get here with the lights,” he said again.

“Eric, I’m begging you, all right? If you want me on my knees, I’ll get on my knees. Just tell me what I have to do. Eric? Eric, are you listening? I’m begging for my life. I’ll do anything you want. Anything. Just let me live.”

This got no response whatever.

“Eric, I’ll get more. I promise. I’ll steal it. I’ll rob a store. I’ll do anything, Eric. Just let me go.”

Eric slid down off his stool and selected a pair of scissors. He stood over Keith and snicked the blades open and shut. Then, taking hold of Keith’s hair just above the ear, he cut away a small lock and held it up in a dim shaft of daylight. “I wish Edie would get here with the lights.”