I said: “Norman, this is what I want. I want you to bring those four people in. They are trespassing. We can’t have it.”
“I’m sorry?”
“I want you to bring them in and keep them here until further notice.” And with that I turned my back on him, knowing that in some way, it’d be out of my hands from then on.
“But we don’t even know who they are. And we certainly don’t need that kind of attention. Florida just cleared five thousand. I’m going down there next week to make the Pack official.”
“Great. All the more reason to protect ourselves. Now just do what I say.”
His mouth opened, but he knew the discussion was over. He backed out of the room. His face seemed to drag across the floor.
On his way out, I told him to get them hoods. I didn’t want to see their faces, didn’t want to know their names.
Which brings me to the present. I now have four hostages I will gladly exchange for my wife and child. I will make a ransom tape and make my demands clear. But I don’t know if it will work, and if it doesn’t, then I would like to ask for something else, which is this: the chance to humanize this story so that among those for whom the expiry of my life will come as good news, there are two who might someday know of the sorrow wrought in my heart for them.
Thurlow put on his gym pants and a long-sleeved polyester crew and made for the sauna. Five pounds in five minutes, sweat therapy. He was what the professionals call TOFI: thin outside, fat inside. A skinny fat person, no muscle tone at all. His body fat percentage was 25, which he knew thanks to a medical resident, a dietician, who came once a fortnight to tell him how close he was to heart failure. She looked grim every time.
He opened the sauna door and found his crew waiting, as always, for the morning meeting. In attendance were Norman, Grant, Dean, in a sweat born of the excitement to which they were newly wed. That and the heat, 168 and rising. Norman wet the coals. The walls were Nordic spruce with burls that dilated in the grain if you stared at them too long. Thurlow sat on the top bench. His tennis socks were wet and printed the wood like flippers.
They’d had the hostages for twenty-four hours. Now it was time to deal.
Norman said, “I found a lighting crew in the area. And someone for hair and makeup. So how about we schedule filming for three o’clock — can we say three?” He swiped a finger across his brow and flicked what was there at the tile.
Dean’s voice surged above the wheezing stones. “I was hoping to get you first. For gear and training. It’s a brave new world. But we’re ready.”
Grant stared at his toes, which were bound in sandals and swelled with blood. He was the youngest there, twenty-nine and schooled in technologies that kept the Helix current. “We’re gonna need more bandwidth, that’s for shit sure. Our site’s gonna pop.”
“Totally ready,” Dean said, with fists upraised. “Bring it on.” He was dappled red in an allotment that seemed miserly in this context — it was 172 by now — but enviable the rest of the time. He never looked flustered; he was totally ready.
“A ransom tape,” Grant said. “So excellent. It’ll go viral in two minutes, so we have to be prepared.”
“Exactly so,” Norman said. “And with it, we will get our message out worldwide.” He flung his arms as if to compass worldwide but stopped quick. “Which is the point, right?” And here he looked at Thurlow, whose eyes closed immediately. Norman’s will to believe was profound. He had to believe; what else did he have? “We were stagnating,” Norman said. “Of course. I can see that now. I slept on it, and now I can see it plain. So we’ll use the tape to raise awareness. To let everyone know how dire the situation is out there by having these people perform what it feels like to be alone. To be severed from the world. So really, this isn’t a kidnapping so much as social art. Is that right?”
“Correct,” Thurlow said, though the word seemed to drop from his lips like a brick. “Now get going.”
Meeting adjourned. But Thurlow didn’t move. And when he checked in with his will to move, all evidence suggested this torpor would be ongoing. Brave new world? Gear and training? He’d had one night to indulge the romance of what he’d done before the logistics rained out the wedding.
The four hostages worked for the Department of the Interior, which was odd, to say the least. Who would send these people? They didn’t seem to know themselves.
Thurlow got changed and went to the den. The hostages were sitting on the floor in burlap hoods, with hands cuffed behind their backs. One of them had been unable to coerce his gams into the lotus position, so he’d taken to flapping them like butterfly wings. Another was davening, less in prayer than distress, like one of the nuts you see in the ward or someone who needed a bathroom. The girl was unmoved, and the Indian — it was like his body hair was about to ignite for the tinder of being here and for the way he hated the Helix. Thurlow could feel this, though the man hadn’t said a word. But it didn’t matter. In a few hours, Thurlow would be in a director’s chair. In the room: four hostages who had no burden except to hold up the day’s newspaper and appear not dead. In his head: his wife and child and the bliss of their return, for which he’d ransom the four alongside the faith of every person who believed in him. Starting with Norman.
Thurlow adjusted his chair. Turned on the desk lamp. Turned it off. This was all wrong. The angle, the shot, the lighting. He felt like an anchorman for the nightly news. No affect for the relay of trauma, no stake in its outcome. This would not do for broadcast into every home in America. After all, it wasn’t like he didn’t know what happened to a cult leader’s footage in the aftermath of a siege. Especially if people died. Especially if the cult leader died.
He looked at the camera again. He went: Roll tape, and said, “Now, look: I am not a crazy.”
But it was impossible to maintain the pretense of dignity with his earpiece vibrating every two seconds. It had been vibrating for hours. It was vibrating now. The Helix was in the news, and everyone wanted to know, What the hell. What the hell, Thurlow? What have you done? He took every fifth call. This time it was Norman, bearing word: The hoods were a bust. They didn’t breathe or wick, and one of the artists — he was calling them artists — the Indian, was getting a rash.
In the meantime, three calls had been forwarded to his voicemail. The messages were brief. They said: What the hell. Also: Close the blinds. It was hard to know what forces would mass out there against him, but he expected the usuaclass="underline" special ops, trained to kill.
But don’t worry, Dean said. Message four. The house could take it.
He looked back at the camera. He felt a little sick.
01:41:11:09: What else should I say for starters? Nobody wants to hurt this much. Even people who court the hurt, who need the hurt by way of self-recrimination and penance — they do not want this much of it.
And not for this long. Because after this long, it’s hard to acknowledge that hurt—this hurt — resolves into years of poor judgment.
On his computer: If my wife comes here with Ida jubhjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjj. He lifted his head and felt where the keyboard had imprinted his cheek. He was in his study. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that receded into the wall. He had planned this room down to the grain of its boards, and yet its blessing was owed to chance. The lights were energy conscious and would turn off for lack of movement after five minutes. This meant that whenever he got to self-immolating about the past, the overheads would go dark and he would come round. Only this time, he’d fallen asleep.