Name, rank, serial number.
Something to brace on. Get ready. Sound went in and out. Light rippled on the wall, the wind slipping through leaves outside. Dale had parked off the road, in the shade of some trees. Her mind played tricks, defaulting to bad trips…
Seven years ago she’d been forced down on another bed by Virgil Fret, who tried to rape her. She had mocked his manhood and driven him into a fury of violence. He burned her with cigarettes, kicked her, and then punched her with his fists. His brother, Bevode, who was a lot scarier than Virgil, cut off part of her ear and gave it to Broker as a present.
But Virgil didn’t bind her hands because he liked the back-and-forth of physical contact, the feeling of knocking her around. She’d used that to stay alive minute by minute until Broker…
She forced away the image. Nothing personal, not now. Not Broker, not Jane…
This was different from Virgil.
Unlike at the bar, now she got nothing overtly sexual off Dale Shuster, who stood in the compartment, bland and white as the Pillsbury Doughboy. It was hot in this tight space, but still Dale wore a long-sleeve blue Carhartt work shirt buttoned down to the wrists and up to his neck. The bloodless white of his skin was something you see on the inside of a seashell.
Hard to gauge reactions and focus. She thought she knew her body. Always counted on hemorrhages of adrenaline. But that old surge had turned on her, had congealed into a cold, heavy coil that pressed down on her chest. Hard to breathe with Dale studying her. His flat, patient eyes were teaching her stuff she didn’t want to know. Like how fear was a fast surface blast of pins and needles. Fear was fight or flight. Fear helped you survive. She’d swept right past fear into something deeper. More permanent. This was dread.
Dread was no way out, looking down into darkness. Getting ready to die.
To hold dread at bay she reached deep for hate. With difficulty, she forced a breath into her lungs. Let it out.
Face into the wave. Easy for you to say.
Still, she had to know.
She forced herself to look directly into Dale’s eyes and said, “What was that you gave me?”
“Ketamine. It’s a general anesthetic. Makes you paralyzed. I hit you in a large muscle group, so it came on slow. Like, say, when you have to use the bathroom. I’ll give you half a dose and you’ll be like a puppy. Easy to handle.”
Nina couldn’t help making a face.
Dale shrugged. “I have this problem with women. Ketamine helps me get over it. You didn’t eat any breakfast this morning, did you?” he asked blandly.
Nina shook off the weird question, gritted her teeth, and said, “Do you know who I am?”
He nodded. “You’re the government. You came looking for me because a Saudi named Rashid was arrested in Detroit earlier this week. He talked.”
That stunned her, and though she was still trippy from the drug, she had to know. She pushed up against the restraints. “Dale, is there a bomb?”
“Oh yes. Maybe you’ll get to see the windows rattle when it goes off. From a safe distance, of course.” Dale pushed the last bite of his doughnut into his mouth, and she noticed the milky flesh under his fingernails. A sign of a congestive heart. His blood was probably white too. Clots in his veins like maggots.
He chewed, took a final gulp of Coke, and set the can on the carpet. Then he lowered his bulk to the side of the bed. His weight depressed the mattress and she shifted toward him. Their hips touched. Almost blushing, he shyly moved away.
Nina started to tremble. It wasn’t his casual talk about a bomb that undercut her nerve. It was his creepy fit of shyness. The weird things he said.
You didn’t eat breakfast this morning?
After several false starts, she managed to say, “Rashid used the word nuclear.”
“Yes. There is a nuclear component,” Dale said.
“How”-she shook her head, concentrated, then continued-“did they get it in?”
“They?” Dale drew himself up. “They didn’t. I did. It’s my bomb. Well, actually, George and Joe made it, but it was my idea first.” His smile, though modest, showed half an inch of gum.
“George?” her voice rose.
“Yeah. You met him last night. He faked you guys out, huh?” Dale jerked his thumb at the rear of the van. “He’s right outside, parked in back. Probably smoking one of his cigars. We’re on our way to blow it up.”
She wasn’t processing this. She was losing it to the shakes. Her hip and left leg started to charley-horse, and out of reflex she stretched against the cords, causing her to arch her back, raise her hips to flex the cramped muscles. Dale averted his eyes and immediately rose from the bed.
“Don’t do that,” he said.
Nina couldn’t stop blinking, as if rapid eyelid movement could clarify the confusion. On their way… then a spasm circled her spine and she fought off a deep tremor, afraid her bladder and sphincter would let go. She had lost control and now she would lose her dignity. She would be reduced to mere fluids: sweat, tears, piss, shit, and blood. She knew if she allowed herself to think of her daughter right now she would cry.
Suddenly, enveloped in shivers, she got it. He wasn’t your ordinary sexual predator. He wasn’t some high-prairie militia whack job. They figured how to use him because…
He was crazy.
Dale edged around the bed, went to a small wicker basket by the toilet, and removed a folded sheet. Methodically he opened it, shook it out, and held it at arm’s length. It was as white as his face. He returned to the side of the bed and carefully spread it over her, pulling it up to her neck. “That’s better,” he said.
Then he reached up and closed the window and pulled the curtain shut so it was dark in the compartment.
“Movie time,” he said.