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She knew, of course, that this man wanted the thing that had brought Ramone to her. And she knew, unlike the creepy man, that Ramone wasn’t lying. There was nothing they could give the man. At least, so far Ramone hadn’t produced anything. They’d only discussed it.

She found herself wishing that Ramone
had
produced something, so she could rush in and give it to the torturer, and save Ramone. But Ramone would hate that. She hadn’t underestimated him, exactly, but she could never have imagined him withstanding the monstrous ministrations of his captor like he was.

The street in front of Ramone’s house was quiet. It was a typical neighborhood with white and red mailbox posts, groomed lawns and flowerbeds, maples, hedges and the occasional towering evergreen so far as she could make out in the night by streetlight. When would it change? When would it be razed and transformed into the FeedTV communes, homes for those who leveled and raised their feed status like the Organization wanted? Blythe wondered grimly.

Windows in houses glowed warmly and flashed beyond their curtains, presumably illuminated by TVs and room-sized feed-screens. A couple walked by on an uneven sidewalk, holding hands and laughing beneath the umbrella of the nearest streetlight. The scene was a distracting contrast to the crumbling feeling inside her.

Blythe wasn’t stupid. What the man in Ramone’s house represented was the hideous truth hidden behind the curtain of the feeds and the companies invested in the feeds. The proverbial wizard controlling the flow of information. Only the smoke and mirrors weren’t empty. The threat was real. And the reality of what she was up against by having aligned herself with Ramone chilled her. She was already implicated. If this strong-arm didn’t extract what he wanted from Ramone, he’d come to her next.

Maybe he’d come for her anyway.

There was no time for tears. No time to feel bad for what Ramone was enduring. She had to act now.

Act.

Now.

She drew a shuddering breath. Acting. It was her weakest ability. Moving quickly without consideration for consequences. If only she had a weapon. A gun. But who had guns? No one. That dangerous part of free society vanished as the “terrorist” threat rose, oddly enough. One would think guns in the hands of loyal citizens would aid the fight against the terror cells. But they were both gone now, guns and terror cells. Of course Blythe resented the buy-back programs and the lies and the manufactured threats. It was manufactured, wasn’t it? She’d have never spoken that doubt aloud at the firm. Lawyers didn’t believe in such anachronistic ideas about guns and an armed militia and all that rhetoric. Not in the modern era. So, perhaps she wasn’t so bad at acting. Everyone had believed her the same as them: elite, educated, intellectual.

“I
am
intellectual,” she said aloud without intending to. Her voice quavered. There was a weak, hollow sound to it. She knew she was scared, but the fear in her voice still surprised her. There was no time to be scared. No time.

The man in Ramone’s office had no restraint. She could see the twisted hunger in his eyes as he moved. It was a cold, lustful fire. Ramone’s own eyes burned hotly with righteous furor. He wouldn’t give up. Blythe had to help him.

Guns weren’t the only weapons. Anything could be a weapon, as the creep hurting Ramone so aptly demonstrated. Plus, she had surprise on her side. He hardly expected a woman to pop in and clock him over the head, so engrossed in the task he was. She drew a hissing breath. If only she could do that. What would happen next? Fear kept her rooted to the leather seat of her luxury car, a silver Lexus. Her most recent indulgence.

Where was Ramone’s wife? This wasn’t Blythe’s role. Was it? The screen on her slate went to Ramone’s hand as the torturer reached for it. Beautiful hands. She recalled the kiss they shared and the feel of him pulling her close.

“No,” Blythe whispered, willing the torturer to stop.

Her phone rang, startling her. She almost dropped the slate before lowering it to check the number on her phone. She didn’t recognize it and let it ring to voicemail. Ramone needed her.

She turned back to her slate, drilling up the courage to leave her car and rush to Ramone, no sooner had she resumed watching the horrifying session, than the same number rang her.

“Hello?” She would end this conversation quickly.

“Blythe.” It was an unfamiliar male voice, but the tone said it knew her. An old client perhaps.

“Yes?”

“Don’t repeat anything I say to you, my life and yours might depend on it.”

“Who is this?” Her skin prickled.

“Please. Trust me. Whatever you say, don’t repeat my name, the cameras will hear you.”

Heart pounding in her throat, she looked around, searching outside her car. The hair on the back of her neck rose as though she were being watched. She was. Why hadn’t she thought of it? The cameras. Of course. Whatever was happening to Ramone was related to her. The feeds would pick up on it.

“Go on,” she urged.

“I’m an Editor. My name is Ghosteye. I can see you now. I’m the reason Ramone’s interrogation is being broadcast.” He sounded rushed and tense, as though he knew the dangerous territory he’d gotten into.

“Why?” she asked, inhaling sharply.

“Well, why do you love him? That’s all I can say to explain it.”

“I don’t—” she broke off before she finished. Love.
I don’t love him,
she thought.
Do I?
If she said it, the cameras would know. She whispered, “I don’t know,” and lifted the slate closer to her face and feeling her stomach clench. “It’s something I can’t explain.”

“I can’t explain it either,” the Editor said. “He’s important, and you have to save him before the Enforcer kills him.”

“I know.”

“Good. The Enforcer won’t stop until Ramone is dead, you know. Even if he doesn’t get the information he wants. And he might come for you.”

“I assumed as much.”

He grunted, as though holding something back. He’d been watching her. He felt he knew her. An Editor! Defecting! What had Ramone started?

“He’s our only hope. We need him to finish whatever he’s begun. Will you do it?”

“It’s what I came for,” she said, remembering to be intentionally vague.

“His wife is with her lover. I would say you have an hour at the most. It would be dangerous for her to come home with the Enforcer still there. I can’t say for certain, but he’d probably kill her too.”

“Why are you doing this?”

The Editor hesitated before answering. “It’s only right. And that’s all I can say at the moment.”

She nodded, almost asking him what he had in mind for her to do to stop the Enforcer, but held her tongue. She wasn’t helpless. She’d never be helpless.

“You’ve already been connected with Ramone, Blythe, so forgive me for it, but I’m going to continue to broadcast Ramone’s feed until the very last minute when I’ll have to stop.”

“Why will you have to stop?”

“They’ll come for me. I’ve just exposed the corrupt underbelly of the system.”

“And then what?” Would he know what she meant?

“For you and Ramone? Or for me?”

“Me.”

“I have a plan for that. Go save him. I’ll be in contact with you again soon.”

Blythe stared at the phone in her hand, purposely looking away from the scene playing out on her slate. Before she could think too hard, she jumped out of the vehicle, popped the trunk and rummaged through it till her fingers closed around the cold shaft of the tire iron.

“I’m coming,” she said, ignoring the pounding coming from inside her chest as she marched down the slight dip of the driveway, past what she assumed to be the Enforcer’s vehicle, to the front door. It was unlocked. She laughed quietly to herself, thinking that the monster was conceited. It made sense.

Oh, what have I gotten myself into?
She crept into the house, feeling quietly thankful that she wore flats to work. Pliable flats, no less. Her feet only made a shuffling noise over the tile floor as she checked the dark rooms on either side of the entrance hall, heading past the kitchen, to the closed door in the back corner of the house. Light spilled around the edges. A voice buzzed beyond the white paneled door and Blythe recognized the nasally tone of the Enforcer.

Don’t think, just act. If only she’d brought her slate. She’d know when the man—what had Ghosteye called him? Enforcer—wasn’t facing the door. Instead, she’d have to guess. Pressing her ear up against the wood, she listened, waiting for the change in volume signaling that the man had turned. Five minutes and it came. Turning the doorknob softly, she opened the door a crack. He was five feet away, his back to her. The world slowed then as she opened the door further and pushed forward through the air, suddenly feeling like the atmosphere was as thick as water.

Chapter 9

What did it matter if they killed him now?

In a way, the pain was welcome. It forced the image of Sue with another from his head. His anchor was gone, the tsunami had come, and the harbor was destroyed. He wanted the Enforcer to do his worst. Even when the pain was too much, it wasn’t enough.

You deserve it,
another part of him screamed. For what he did with Blythe.
It was just a kiss!
The weak part of him insisted.

No, it was worse. It was worse. You did much more with her in your heart. And I know, because I am you.

What’s happening to me?

You’re fracturing. You’re weak. The pain is too great.

Let me die!

Death is for the honorable. You have no honor.

I ran away,
he groaned. He might have said it aloud, he didn’t know.
I left Blythe before I could do anything worse. I have honor. I’m a good man.

A good man? Ha!

The Enforcer was saying something, trying to be heard over the voices in Ramone’s head but he couldn’t understand. It was a distant, irritating buzz. The Enforcer moved around Ramone, a foggy blur.

Without warning, a cool, gentle hand touched his cheek. There was pressure on his chest, and a surprisingly gentle tugging at his scalp, but no new pain. Ramone closed his eyes, feeling himself drift away.

“Ramone. Ramone. Ramone, stay with me,” a voice said, snagging his awareness and pulling it back from an inviting lake of white mist he drifted toward. He recognized the voice. The tugging at his scalp became more insistent, but not painful. The old pains throbbed and screamed at him, but the sensation touching his head was sweet. “Ramone, Ramone.”

“I ran away,” he said, certain the voice of torment in his head hadn’t been silenced.

“You did, you ran from me,” a voice said. But it wasn’t in his head. It was a female voice.

“Let me die.”

“Never.”

“I’m exhausted.”

“You have to live, Ramone. I need you. We need you.”

The voice was familiar. If only he could see. “I was almost asleep.”

“Then I’ve come just in time.” The tugging at his scalp continued, soothing him.

The restraints at his wrists and ankles loosened, and soon he was being helped into a sitting position. “Open your eyes, Ramone.”

“They’re open,” he insisted.

“It’s me. Blythe. You remember me, don’t you Ramone?”

“Blythe,” he breathed, his breath catching on the lump forming in his throat.

“Don’t cry, it’s ok. You’re safe now.” The tears stung his cheeks.

“I’m sorry. This is my fault, Blythe. They’ll come for you too.”

“I don’t care about that, I just want you to open your eyes and look at me.”

He shook his head. “I don’t think I can right now.”

“Then put your arm around my shoulder, here.” He felt his hand being moved to her thin shoulder and he pushed it awkwardly across her back. “Now stand.”

“I don’t know, I’m not sure I can.”

“Ramone! You’re not broken. You’re too strong. They can’t break you, listen to me. Open your eyes and look at me.”

The anger in her voice scared him. Would she hit him? He
was
broken. He knew. He’d wanted to die there, at the end. A weak man, he saw now. Weak.

“I’m weak. Weak. Leave me.”

She began moving, urging him along beside her. His knees nearly buckled when he put weight on his legs, but she caught him, and so he leaned against her. She forced him to take a step. He did, but his foot, slow to respond, only shuffled across the floor, hardly lifting at all.

“That’s good. Good work,” she encouraged. The smell of lavender tugged at his senses so close to her. He thought he could smell her breath too, as she nearly carried him through the house. She exhaled heavily and her breath smelled of rain. He tumbled through these sensations, his mind distant from his body as it worked to carry him wherever she led. He hardly knew what was happening.

“Where are we going?” he asked. He heard the front door of his house open and close. His feet moved slowly, but on their own now without much thought on his part.

“To my car. And then, I don’t know.” Her voice sounded strained.

“Why are you doing this?”

“Let’s discuss that later,” she said. She managed a laugh, but it sounded forced. He was becoming more aware as the shock wore off.
This is my hand,
he thought, squeezing her tiny shoulder and feeling the taut strands of muscle beneath his fingers. “You think I wouldn’t do this for all my clients?”

He ignored the question, becoming aware of his legs. His knees throbbed and the place where the straps had cut into his skin vibrated with a dull ache. Thousands of needle sharp pains cascaded across his thighs with each motion as though he’d fallen into a cactus.
Very nearly that describes it,
he thought sarcastically. His chest burned and he wondered if he’d ever feel interested in being touched again.

Halfway up the driveway, by his blind calculations, he jerked away from her and vomited onto the lawn at the edge of the concrete. Blythe was there as it subsided, shoving a handful of napkins into his hand. She said nothing, and he was thankful for that.

He stared at the pile of half digested food, surprised there’d been anything in there. My eyes are open, he thought, blushing to see what he’d done. He couldn’t remember the last time he ate.
Before Sue,
his mind began, about to recite the night’s horrifying events.
Never mind.
With his eyes open, the pain he’d been hiding from crashed down upon him. He leaned forward, his eyes stinging with the smell of bile, and gasped. Everything hurt.

Vaguely he became aware of Blythe pacing beside him, glancing up and down the street nervously.

He wiped his mouth and nose and stood, awkwardly.

It only took a glance at Blythe and his cheeks flushed fiercely. He’d run. And now she’d watched him vomit. She must think him an absolute weakling, afraid of the dark, afraid of women, afraid of himself.

“Good, you’ve opened your eyes. Come on. I don’t know what’s going to happen next. I’ve never knocked a man out with a tire iron. He could wake up any second.”

“Did you kill him?”

“I didn’t check.” She began to slide under his arm to help him walk again, but he stepped away.

“I think I can manage it. Thanks for—for rescuing me.” He was painfully aware of the vomit smell on his breath. Even if he could only hop on one leg, he didn’t want to force that on her.

“Let’s not call it that.”

He felt his blush deepen. The cool night suddenly didn’t help the fresh sweat breaking out on his back and neck.
She knew. Everyone knew. What did they once call it? Cuckold. He’d been cuckolded. What kind of man was he?

“My car’s over here,” she said and began walking in the direction she pointed. Across the street he saw a sleek, silver car reflecting the streetlights.

“Wait.” He said, adding it up. The car in his driveway belonged to the man who’d just tortured him. A gout of rage fired through his chest. Ramone went to the window and broke it with his elbow. The pain hardly compared to the thousands everywhere else. He popped the trunk and went to fiddle beneath the hood.

“What are you doing?” Blythe asked, following him.

“Making sure he can’t follow us.”

He finished, remembered something else, and opened the trunk.

“Let’s go,” he said. Blythe stared at the tire iron in his hand, not moving until he said, “Always be prepared.”

“Good idea,” she said, turning and rushing across the street. Ramone was still for a moment, watching her hair sway across her shoulders. She still wore the clothes from earlier, the white blouse and the skirt. For a moment he forgot the aches that threatened to bring him to his knees. Just minutes ago all hope had been snuffed out like a candle in a rainstorm. The cold iron in his hand and the warmth rushing through him with each heartbeat as he studied how she moved away from him seemed to bring a portion of it back. He squeezed the straight, unrelenting metal until it stung the palm of his hand, and hurried after her.

*****

They were going to leave without her, and then she’d never find Ramone.

The cab sped through the cool desert night and Marci glanced out the window for a moment, unfamiliar with the sprawling, endless landscape of city. Mountains rose on either side of her in the distance, and the lights of houses crept up the foothills, as though eager to reach the top. She felt turned around and lost, unable to even point north.

“How much farther?” she asked the driver.

“Ten minutes.” His words were clipped.  

The meter continued to rise into astronomical amounts. She sulked for a second, wishing there was someone she could glare at, irritated that she couldn’t rent a car—being too young—and then returned her attention to the slate. Onscreen Ramone and Blythe sat in her sedan, waiting for something. Marci worried that Ramone’s torturer would show up and ruin everything. Had Blythe’s blow killed him? Marci hoped it had. She’d never been bloodthirsty or cared much for violence, but
that
man deserved to be dead. Or ripped apart by wild dogs. She’d never seen anything like him in her life! She hardly believed it was real, that there was a person out there with the capacity to do what he’d done. If Blythe hadn’t killed him, Marci could well imagine herself finishing the job. What right did
he
have to do that to another human being? It was grotesque.

With one ear bud in, Marci heard Blythe speak, finally. “I’m sorry. I’m waiting for a phone call.”

“Can’t you get the call as we drive away?” Ramone asked gently, wiping his hands across the thighs of his corduroys—Marci had determined it was his nervous tic—he stopped suddenly and closed his eyes. His face paled visibly. She was glad to see him returning to normal, resuming his typical habits, though it pained her to know he was
in
pain. Of course he was, after what that monster did to his legs!

“Maybe. I’m just a little nervous is all. I’ve never done anything like this,” Blythe answered, glancing at her phone. She put it down on top of her car and opened a first aid kit she’d pulled from the trunk of her car.

“You’re not the only one.”

“Open your shirt, Ramone.” Blythe said, squeezing some ointment onto her fingertip. “If I don’t get this call in the next five minutes, we can leave.”

Ramone hesitated, shaking his head. “I hope we have that much time. I don’t know what kind of other weapons that . . .
man
. . . has.”

“What was he, Ramone? Open your shirt. Really. I saw what he did to you. Everyone saw it.”

Ramone’s eyebrows rose and he looked about to ask a question.

“Yeah, that’s right. It was broadcast. How do you think I knew to come? Now, please. You need this.” Blythe stood there, the passenger side door open, Ramone seated under the dome light of the sedan, the tire iron propped between his legs. 

Ramone shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose, took his glasses off, and rubbed his eyes.

Marci raised her head to look at the taxi's meter again and, hoping to get the question out without missing much, quickly asked, “How much longer?”

The driver let go of the steering wheel and shrugged his hands in frustration. “I don’t know. Five minutes?”

“Can you drive a little faster please?”

He shook his head. “Sorry. I’m already five over.”

“Ten over? Please? My friend is in danger. I need to get to him before anything worse happens.”

The driver shook his head again, but Marci noted that their speed increased a tiny bit.

“Thank you,” she said, turning back to her slate. Hope blossomed in her chest. She might make it.

“. . . never seen anything like him before,” Ramone was saying as Blythe spread some kind of salve over his chest, then gently pressed a gauze bandage against him and secured it with first aid tape. “But, I imagine if you’ve done something to bring them to your door, you generally don’t last much longer after that.”

“He was a brute. Evil.” Blythe shook her head slowly in wonderment. “And last but not least, these,” she said, dabbing anti-biotic ointment on the scratches on his cheeks. Ramone closed his eyes. Blythe finished and screwed the cap back on the tube, saying, “There. I hope that feels slightly better. I know it’s not much, but—.”

“Thank you, really,” Ramone said. “It helps. A lot. And the Enforcer. He was here because of—”

Blythe cut him off, touching his arm gently. “I know. The thing. We don’t need to talk about it.”

There was a long, awkward silence. Blythe cleared her throat, straightened, returned the first-aid kit to the trunk and got back into the driver’s seat. A song began playing. It accentuated the darkness in the car, the space between the two of them, which, while only the length between the sides of the vehicle, might as well have been as wide as the Mariana trench. It brought the horrendous experience Ramone had just endured into sharp relief, like a sculpture beneath a spotlight. Marci decided that Ramone was embarrassed and that he thought he’d displayed weakness back in the house with his tears and when he threw up, because, well, she could see it, and she knew Ramone by now. But as he sat there in the dark unaware of the song playing, his blue eyes reflecting the glow of the streetlight outside the car, he looked stronger than she’d ever seen him. As though he’d died and been reborn, a new man with a new purpose, devoid of fear. Nothing could hurt him now. He’d been pushed into an unfamiliar, hellish place and come back from it, bearing all the scars that proved his capacity to endure and overcome. Blythe shifted and sighed, looked at Ramone from the corner of her eye. The camera picked it up and it tore at Marci’s heart. Blythe could see and feel what Marci knew: that Ramone was renewed. Marci was sure that if she could see into Blythe’s heart, it would be singing Ramone’s name with each pulse. The moment was fragile but loaded. Nothing would happen, though the promise of what was to come would sustain the two of them. All of them. Marci as well. Even though it would crush her to only be a witness, to not be the object of Ramone’s devotion. The tension increased, and then suddenly, Blythe’s phone rang.