Anonymous Caller (Chapter 5)
Tim trudged through the darkness, past the tree where Amy had given herself to him, slowing to a crouch as he neared the gatehouse. He counted at least five of them: large men in black, hooded slickers, the beams of their flashlights tracing the outline of the building like Hollywood spotlights at movie premier.
He stepped forward and held up the gun. “Hey!” he shouted.
Half-a-dozen flashlights converged on his eyes. A sixth man he hadn’t accounted for appeared at his left flank and raised something from the folds of his rain jacket. A shotgun.
One of the other men pulled back his hood, revealing a rough, weathered face with a rangy hillbilly beard. “You’re going to want to put down that pea-shooter, Timothy,” he growled.
There was the sound of a shotgun being pumped, two shells popping into chambers, ready to fire.
Tim let the rifle slip from his fingers into the mud. The bearded man walked over to him, his booted feet slopping through the muck. Trailing him was a taller man with a chiseled, humorless face. The one with the shotgun, the youngest of them, maybe 35, scooped up Tim’s rifle and tossed it into the trees.
“Who are you people,” Tim asked, his voice quaking.
“You haven’t been answering your phone, boy,” said the bearded man.
“Answering my... That was you?”
“Who did you think it was? Someone selling magazine subscriptions?”
Tim shook his head. Behind the men, others were carrying canisters from the fuel shed to the gatehouse. Two of them began splashing the walls with gasoline.
“What you doing!” Tim shouted to them. Then, to the bearded one, “Make them stop. Please.”
“You’ve been stupid and irresponsible, Timothy. Now I’m going to have to burn your playhouse down. And since they aren’t making these things anymore, you’ll understand why I’m just a little bit pissed off about it.”
The rain trickled off Tim’s hair into his eyes. “Listen, whoever you are, I’ll share it with you. You can use the machine any time you want.”
“We have our own, thanks,” said the beard, stepping closer. “Did you know you have the FBI after you, Timothy? For the first time since J. Edgar Hoover we have to worry about the G-men, thanks to you, that girl puppet you have back there...” he nodded at the farmhouse... “and her boyfriend.”
At this range Tim could see smile lines etched among the furrows and creases on the man’s face. Somehow, it gave him hope, until the man’s next words dowsed it like ice water. “You know what? To hell with it.” He pulled a clunky old cell phone from his pocket and began dialing a number. “I’m just going to suicide you. Bill, hold him.”
“W-wait. I’ll be better. I’m sorry. I just got carried away.”
The tall one stepped towards Tim menacingly. Then the one with the shotgun spoke for the first time. “Reggie,” he said to the beard. “He’s Charles Forrester’s son. He’s Aaron Forrester’s great-grandson.”
The beard—Reggie—seemed to consider it. “Fine,” he said at last.
“And he deserves another chance with the machine. He’s young. And he’s not the first one to get dial-drunk.”
The rain picked up, falling in sheets that splattered the mud with a sick, wet sound. The figures at the gatehouse were just shadows now through the wall of water. But the rain wouldn’t stop a gasoline fire; Tim held his breath, expecting at any moment to see a blaze flare up through the darkness.
“That’s a fair point, Daniel,” said Reggie, his voice softening. His eyes bored into Tim’s for a long moment. “Alright.” He nodded at the tall one, who turned and strode towards the gatehouse at a rapid gait, presumably to call off the fire.
To his left, the shotgun man—Daniel—lowered his weapon and began following the tall one away wordlessly. Just like that, it was over. It was just Reggie now. “You get another chance, Timothy. Your last one. Mind your father’s advice. And when you have a son someday, pass it on.”
Reggie turned and began following the others. In a minute, they began walking away from the gatehouse and towards the rear of the farm. They must have taken utility trucks and parked on the old dirt road.
“Oh,” the man yelled back. “And clean up your FBI mess.”
Karen tucked her accordion folder under one arm and rang the buzzer at the preppie’s brownstone. On the street behind her a cab driver blared his horn, and a pedestrian swore and shouted, “Watch where you’re going!” After a moment, the door buzzed open; she stepped into the lobby and let it swing closed behind her, muffling the city’s harshness.
She climbed the stairs to the second floor landing, where Rob Addelson was waiting, leaning casually in his open doorway. “Agent Maura.” He smiled and stepped back to let her in.
The apartment was exactly what she expected: faux antiques from Pottery Barn; walls adorned with the mismatched art you buy at Chelsea gallery openings on impulse and regret the next day. A half-consumed cup of coffee was cooling on an end table by the sofa. “Can I get you anything?” he asked quickly. He seemed nervous. “Coffee? Juice?”
“No thanks,” she said. “Please, sit down.”
Addelson sank into the sofa. She sat on a blocky arts-and-crafts chair and rested the file folder on the floor. “Like I said on the phone, I’ve been looking into your case, and now I think there might be something to it.”
He smiled grimly. “Well, then you’re catching up with me. I know there’s something to it.”
“I checked with Jenny’s employer. She phoned her office the night she disappeared. She left a message saying she had to take time off for an unspecified family emergency.”
“She never told me about any family emergency.” He fidgeted.
“Have you been calling her cell phone?”
“Every few hours since she left. It goes right to voice mail.”
“I got the same thing,” she confirmed. “I checked with her carrier, and she hasn’t turned the phone on since she left. That means we can’t get a location from her signal.”
He stood up again. “Excuse me for a second. I’m going to get a warm-up.” He scooped up his coffee cup and carried it in the direction of the kitchen behind her.
Karen bent to open the file folder. “I’ll take one too, thanks!” she called out.
Then she sensed him behind her again, and, too late, felt cold plastic against her ear.
She tried to bat it away, but her arm didn’t respond. The receiver hissed in her head.
“Karen?” came the boy’s voice, exactly as Addelson had described it. It seemed to ring simultaneously in her ear and her thoughts, whispering in a dark, private space that had never been occupied by a voice other than her own. “Are you there?”
No, no, no. “Yes,” she heard herself answer. Incongruously, she thought of the sidearm in the holster under her jacket. Stupid. What would she do with it, even if she could marshal the will? Shoot the phone?
“Take the phone from Rob and keep it on your ear.”
Her fingers brushed Addelson’s hand as she took the receiver. The preppie returned to his seat across from her. “I’m sorry,” he said sadly. “He called just after you did.” She stared back at him slack-jawed and mute.
“You know, you almost got me killed,” said the voice on the phone, with a hint of anger. “That’s not going to happen again. You’re going to stop looking for me. You won’t cause anyone else to look for me, you won’t help anyone look for me. Do you understand?”
It was true—truer than anything she’d ever known: gravity, the color of the sky, right and wrong, jealousy, desire, love. “Yes. I understand.” Finding him was out of the question. Case closed. She’d take the thick file back to the field office and throw in the shredder.
“Good,” he said. “Let me ask you something, and I know you’ll answer honestly. Do you notice anything different about Rob?”
Addelson was leaning forward, motionless on the couch, his eyes fixed on her intently. “He doesn’t seem to be able to move,” she guessed.
“Yeah, not until you’re off the phone. But that’s not what I’m looking for. Notice something about the way he’s looking at you?”
There was something in Addelson’s gaze. Finally, recognition clicked in. It wasn’t just nervousness, she realized. “Yes.”
“What, exactly?”
“He’s looking at me like he... wants me.”
A malicious cackle. “I’m told you’re pretty hot. I bet you see that look a lot.”
If only she could hang up the phone. Just move a finger to the off button...
“Don’t you?”
“Yes. I do.”
“Well, I thought I’d turn it up a notch with Rob. To give him something to keep his mind off my new girlfriend.
“He doesn’t know it, but I’m going to make a change in you, too,” he continued. “Kind of a gift to him, to show there are no hard feelings. Are you ready?”
“No,” she whispered, gritting her teeth.
“Yes you are. Tell me.”
Her mind opened like a welcoming bloom. “Yes. I’m ready.”
Rob watched the beautiful FBI agent sit on his chair, hold his phone, and absorb the will of the stranger who’d stolen Jenny. The caller’s commands had left him desiring this woman more than anything or anyone he’d ever known. Her cinnamon skin and her tall, toned body seemed to ooze sex. Now he wondered what the voice was telling her, jealous to be outside such an intimate transaction—the caller’s mind in hers.
Finally, she dropped the phone to the floor with a clatter, and he felt invisible bonds fall away from his body. She grabbed the file from the floor, stood suddenly and walked to the door without looking at him.
“Wait!” he protested, standing up. She couldn’t just leave him.
She spun, fluidly retrieving a handgun from somewhere inside her jacket and leveling it at his chest. “Shut up!” she shouted. “Not another word.”
He gulped. She was breathing heavy, and even with the barrel of the gun looming large in his vision, he had to struggle not to stare at the rise and fall of her breasts. A moment passed in silence.
“I’m sorry,” he volunteered meekly. “I don’t even know how he got my number.”
“You don’t think Jenny gave it to him?”
Of course. He nodded.
“I’m going to leave now. This is done. There’s nothing I can do.”
“I know. Me neither.”
“He told me what he did to you, and I’m sorry. But you need to let me go now. Tell me to leave.”
He frowned at her. “What?”
“Tell. Me. To leave.” She waved the gun to indicate the door. “You told me to wait. Now tell me to leave.”
“What—what’s going on? What did he do to you?”
“Now!” she yelled, stepping towards him.
“What did he do? Tell me!” he shouted back.
She flinched as though he’d struck her, then dropped her dark eyes to the floor.
“He told me I have to do anything you say,” she said matter-of-factly.
“Really? Well, shit, put down the gun.”
She placed the firearm on the end table.
He stared at her. He almost had to admire his tormenter’s ingenuity. This was indeed sick. First the caller pumps Rob full of blind lust for Karen, and then leaves her standing there, in the privacy of his home, awaiting his orders. Would he tell her to leave, or...?
She read his thoughts. “Mr. Edelson—Rob. Let me go. Don’t let him win.”
“Be quiet for a minute. I’m thinking.” He sat back down on the sofa. But part of him—the part pulsating between his legs—had already thought it through. “Come here,” he commanded. “And kiss me.”
She blinked, then set down the file folder next to her gun and then walked towards him.
He counted her steps, one, two, three, four strides of her long legs and she was at the sofa, her hips at his eye level. The harsh light from the window behind her vanished as she leaned over him and gripped the back of the couch, her face hovering inches from his, her mouth set in an angry line.
She held there, then tilted her head, parted her lips and pressed them soft over his. It was a clinical kiss, like she was performing CPR, and it only lasted a moment before she pulled away and straightened her body, watching him anxiously.
“Take off your jacket and take down your hair,” he said in a hoarse voice.
Instantly, she pulled off the suit jacket and dropped it behind her, then reached back and removed the band holding her dark hair in a ponytail. She shook it loose, shimmering around her shoulders.
She was so pliant.
“Now the holster.”
She unbuckled it with practiced precision, pulled it off her shoulder and let it drop at his feet. She looked less like a cop now in her plain white blouse.
“Now, kiss me again. Passionately, this time. Make me believe it.”
She inched forward and lowered herself onto his lap, straddling him, her weight settling pleasantly. She wrapped her arms around his head, and he could smell a trace of the perfume she wore on the weekends. She pulled his face close and kissed him hard and sloppy, like he was the only man she’d ever wanted.
He couldn’t help himself: his erection swelled against her, and he was certain she’d recoil. Instead, she pulled her head back slightly to clear noses as she tilted to the other side. She kissed his lips separately, the bottom lip, the top, then bit lightly, breathing, kissing him deeply again. She began writhing in his lap, her fingers tangled in his hair.
So much control. He could make her fuck him. Maybe even make her like it. He was starting to understand what it must be like to be that voice on the phone. The power...
“No!” he yelled, pushing her away. She stumbled backward, then regained her balance. She kept her gaze glued to the floor, as though fearful that eye contact would trigger some new violation.
It was now or never. If he didn’t send her away, he knew he’d keep her for days. This was her last chance. His too.
“Go away,” he said. “Leave.”
He didn’t have to ask twice. She returned to the end table, scooped up her shoulder holster, slid in the gun, then grabbed her jacket and the accordion folder and walked briskly to the door.
She slammed it behind her.
Tim and Jenny were alone in the old church playground at dusk, swinging side-by-side on the swing-set, Jenny’s blonde ponytail flipping up and down. Two days had passed since the men with guns and flashlights, and the rain had stopped.
“I’ve been thinking about those men,” she said, the scent from a nearby alfalfa field wafting over them in the cool breeze.
“Me too. I’m thinking of putting up a fence around the whole farm. Maybe with alarms. Motion detection.”
“Tim, you have 23 acres. That’s 4,000 feet of fencing.”
“I have money.”
“If you turn your property into a compound, the whole county will be wondering what you’re up to.”
He grunted. She was right, of course. Jenny had turned out to be as smart as she was beautiful. In the last two days, she’d finished organizing his father’s business records, while finding the time to brighten the house with carefully arranged wildflowers and other feminine details, all while he periodically interrupted to drag her to the master bedroom for sex.
Tim was obsessed with her body, playing with it like a child with a new toy, and the programming he’d burned into her mind was holding strong. She responded like an animal to his every touch, no matter how clumsy or fumbling.
“So what are you thinking?” he said.
“Your great-grandfather’s invention. It seems strange that he’s the only one who came up with it, even 70 years later. Invention never works that way. Even Alexander Graham Bell barely beat out another inventor with his telephone patent.”
“Maybe my great-grandfather was a genius. It’s in the family gene pool, you know.”
“Or maybe somebody’s kept this technology from seeing the light of day, or being figured out by anybody else. That could be what those men do. Your great-grandfather saw the potential for his machine to be a terrible weapon, or an instrument of oppression. But he knew that if he just destroyed it, somebody else would invent it independently.”
“You’re giving him a lot of credit,” said Tim.
“Hear me out. So he shared his secret with a few trusted friends, maybe men he served with in the war. He built machines for them, too. And for decades these men and their descendants have used the machines to suppress any other research that gets too close to the truth. The CIA, the KGB, and God knows who else have all experimented with mind control. But thanks to this conspiracy started by your great-grandfather, they’ve all been thwarted.”
“And what’s my father’s role in this grand plan?”
“Maybe he was helping. Or maybe the machine was his birthright, like it is yours, so he got to use it however he wanted, provided he didn’t do anything that threatened to expose it.”
He pondered her story. It seemed he was the least-noble character in the script. “I’m taking you to the diner tonight,” he said, changing the subject. “It’s not much, but it’s what passes for a social hangout here.”
“You’re not going to tell me what you think of my theory?”
“It’s great. But not as good as an Indiana cheeseburger. I’ll put it up against anything you get in New York.”
She smiled. “You’re not afraid of drawing attention?”
“I’m feeling like showing you off a little,” he said, thinking of Amy.
Amy sank into the vinyl booth and watched the scene across the crowded diner in disbelief. Tim was sitting with his back to her, sipping a milkshake and talking to that blonde woman across the table from him: a thin, perfectly coiffed 20-something in stylish clothes, who was gazing at him with her blue eyes as though he were the most wonderful man in the world.
Across from Amy, David, her ersatz date for the night, was prattling on about his plans for college. Amy barely heard a word. Every night, for four nights in a row, she’d gone to bed thinking about Tim. Every night she’d summoned his image in her mind, and touched herself, climaxing and drifting into a fretful sleep. Every night she told herself it was the last time.
Once, she’d nearly managed to call the sheriff to confess what Tim had done to her, only to find herself retching over the toilet, literally sickened by the thought of getting him in trouble. She didn’t know if that was part of her programming, or if it was a natural—“natural,” the word was a joke—part of her hopeless, chemical, ardor for the boy who’d brainwashed her.
Now he was sitting right there with his new girlfriend. And now, the blonde was taking his fingers in her perfect lips and kissing them, sucking them, for all to see. In a booth somewhere behind her, she heard another boy whistle.
“I’m sorry, I have to go,” she said to David. She scrambled out of the booth and ran for the door of the diner, passing another table crowded with kids. She realized it was Bobby and his friends, Phil and Margot. Bobby was sitting beside a new addition to their clique: a tall, curvy girl with red hair and green eyes. Tiffany Miller.
It was salt in the wound. She ignored them and fled into the night.
In the booth, Tiffany observed Amy’s rapid exit, while next to her Bobby pretended he didn’t notice his ex-girlfriend. He’s sweet like that, Tiffany thought. But something was clearly bothering Amy, and it wasn’t Bobby.
Across the table, Phil gave voice to her thoughts. “Did you see that?” he asked, stuffing a french-fry in his mouth. Phil was big-boned, with generous features and a wry smile. “What got Amy so upset, you think?”
“Who cares,” said Bobby. “We’re not dating anymore.” He put his arm around Tiffany, who automatically snuggled against his muscular frame.
“I think it was farm-boy back there,” Phil said, not letting it go. “Do you see him with that hot blonde? She was at my dad’s gas station asking for directions a few days ago. I figured she must be really lost to wind up in this fucked up town.”
Margot, Phil’s girlfriend, frowned at his appreciation of the stranger. Margot was on the short side, and always seemed insecure, despite large hazel eyes and a swoop of glossy black hair that revealed a graceful neck. She turned around to check out the woman who’d been drawing so much attention.
Tiffany already had a clear view, and she’d concluded that neither of them could compete with the mystery blonde swooning over Tim, the average-looking nobody who was voted Most Likely To Marry a Cousin by the high school yearbook committee.
Margot turned back with a scowl. “Is that what you like,” she asked Phil. “Should I dye my hair blonde and shave off a few IQ points for you?”
“No. But if you’re thinking of shaving something, I’d love to help.”
“Guys,” Tiffany interrupted, “why would Amy care what Tim Forrester was doing? They’re just friends.”
Phil leaned in conspiratorially. “Look, it doesn’t matter. Whatever he did, he’s got our little Amy in a bad state.” He pointed a french-fry at Bobby. “Until you dumped her, for, I’ll admit, a much superior model...”
Tiffany flipped him off.
“Until then, Amy was in our crew. We owe her some justice.”
Tiffany had only been a part of Bobby’s band of delinquents for a few days, since that strange afternoon when she was mysteriously seized by the urge to fuck his brains out. But she saw a trip to the liquor store and some seriously stupid shit in their future.
Who knows, she thought. It could be fun.
Bobby was already nodding his assent, always up for trouble, and almost certainly jealous of the farm boy’s conquest. “When you’re right, you’re right,” he said. He slurped the icy dregs of his soda loudly. “Let’s meet him in parking lot and give him a taste of asphalt.”
“He hasn’t even gotten his food yet,” said Phil. “He’s going to be here a while. But I hear his old man’s gone for good. I say we let ourselves into his house, raid the liquor cabinet and have a little party.”
Bobby smiled.
Margot shook her head. “Count me out. You guys are headed for the drunk tank. And not for the first time, I bet.”
“Yeah,” agreed Tiffany halfheartedly. “Maybe Margot’s right. We shouldn’t be breaking into someone’s home.”
“Fine,” said Bobby, sliding out of the booth. “You two can wait in the getaway car.”