What Comes Next by John Katzenbach
She was sure that it had happened. She was certain that the woman had been hovering above her, given her the drink, told her to obey. All this had taken place. It was not a dream and not a nightmare. She was not going to abruptly wake up in her bed at home in the middle of the night and hear the sounds of her mother and Scott’s furtive lovemaking through the thin walls. She remembered how much she hated this—and longed for it at the very same time. Jennifer felt as if she were caught in the midst of a half dream and she argued with herself, and for the first time she wondered whether she was dead already.
Jennifer rocked forward slightly. I’m dead, she told herself. This is what it must be like. There’s no heaven. There are no angels and trumpets and pearly gates rising above billowing clouds.
There’s just this.
She caught her breath sharply. No. No. She could feel pain from where she’d scratched herself. That meant she was alive. But how much seemed elusive and for how long was an impossible question.
She shifted her seat and tried to remember exactly what the woman had said, as if there might be a clue within the words that would tell her something important. But each phrase, each tone, each command—all seemed distant and faint and she found herself reaching out, as if she could grab a word from the air in front of her.
Obey, and stay alive.
That was what the woman had said. By going along with whatever was happening Jennifer could stay alive.
Obey what? Do what?
Her inability to remember what it was she was supposed to do made her catch her breath and a single sob burst through her lips, welling up suddenly within her and exploding past any control she might have had.
This thought terrified her and she shuddered deeply.
Jennifer warred within herself. Part of her wanted to descend into a mass of despair and simply give in to the awfulness of her situation—whatever it was—but she fought hard against this desire. She did not know what the point of battling was, but she told herself that fighting reminded her she was still alive and therefore was probably a good thing.
But what she was going to fight, and how, eluded her.
I’m Number 4. They’ve done this before.
She wished she knew more about prisons and how people existed inside them. She knew that some people had lived through kidnappings that had lasted months, even years, before they escaped. People were lost in jungles, abandoned on mountaintops, shipwrecked at sea. People can survive, she insisted. I know it. It’s true. It’s possible. This thought allowed her to calm the nearly overwhelming desire to curl up into a ball on the bed and wait for whatever terrible thing was going to happen next.
Then she told herself, You were in a prison and that’s why you were running away. You were able to pull that off. So you know more than you think you do.
She shifted about on the edge of the bed.
The toilet. If they were just going to kill me right away, they wouldn’t have provided the toilet.
Jennifer smiled. This was an observation that had value.
She told herself to constantly measure everything, to assign some quality of reality to anything that she could actually touch, hear, or smell. The toilet, that was real. It was six strides away from the bed. When she sat on it the chain around her neck tightened, so that was one limit. She had not yet searched the other direction but knew she would have to. She imagined that the bed was the center of the room. Like a draftsman’s metal angle, she could travel a set distance in a semicircle.
She listened hard for any sound, lifting her head a little like an animal in a forest that happens upon a scent, or a noise signaling deep instincts to be alert. She held her breath so that any sound would be clear.
Nothing.
“Hello?” she said out loud. Her hood muffled the word but it still projected enough so that anyone in the room could hear it.
“Anyone there?”
Nothing.
She exhaled and rose to her feet.
As before, she held her hands out in front of her, only this time she was careful to count every step and to make certain that each movement was the same length as the one before. Twelve inches, she reminded herself, so she could begin to create real measurements.
Keeping her hands pressed against the wall, she moved toward the toilet. One. Two. Three . . . six steps before she felt the seat with her knee. She bent down and ran her fingers over the surface. As she had expected, she could feel the chain tightening when she leaned forward. All right, she thought. Now move out slowly.
Jennifer took a step and was abruptly scared. There was some safety in the sensation of the wall beneath her palms, as if it helped her maintain her balance. Stepping away put her into a void, blind, tethered only by the chain around her throat. She sucked in air and forced herself to move away from the solidity of the wall and the new familiarity of the toilet.
She did not try to assign a value to what she was doing. Jennifer knew only that it seemed important. It was what someone should do. And concentrating on distances gave her the sensation that she was trying to help herself. She guessed that she would have to do more later. At the very least, this was a start.
Michael and Linda lay naked on the upstairs bed, still sweaty from their coupling, glistening with excitement. There was a laptop on the coverlet in front of them and they watched attentively on the small screen.
Their room consisted of a single double bed with passion-twisted and stained sheets. A couple of sturdy suitcases and canvas duffel bags strewn on the floor contained clothing. A stark uncovered overhead bulb lit up the room. It had a monastic emptiness except for a single flat wooden table in the corner. On the tabletop were a variety of handguns—two .357 Magnum revolvers and a trio of 9mm semiautomatics. Next to those were a twelve-gauge shotgun and the familiar shape of an AK-47. Boxes of bullets and spare clips of ammunition were spread about. There was enough weaponry to equip half a dozen people.
The computer was a top-of-the-line Apple. It connected wirelessly to the main studio in an adjacent room.
“Give everyone a warning beep,” Linda said.
She bent to the screen, studying the picture. She watched as Jennifer unsteadily stepped away from the wall next to the camp toilet.
“This is really cool,” Linda added, admiringly.
Michael wasn’t watching Jennifer. Instead he was concentrating on the curve of Linda’s back. He ran his finger up her rear, all the way to the top of her spine, then circumscribed her shoulders, pushing her hair aside, and kissed the nape of her neck. Linda nearly purred as she said, “Don’t forget the paying customers . . .”
“Maybe they can wait a few seconds,” he said. Then he ran his tongue up toward her ear.
Linda giggled and shifted about, coming to a cross-legged position on the bed. She took the computer and theatrically placed it between her legs so that it hid her sex. Then she bent slightly over the top, dangling her naked breasts above the screen. “Here,” she said with a grin. “Maybe if I do this . . . you’ll pay more attention to our job.”
Michael nodded and laughed. “No shit,” he said.
He hit a series of keys, which sent out a small electronic noise to all the Whatcomesnext subscribers. The tone—there was a selection of downloadable songs, sounds, and alerts that subscribers could choose from—signaled that Number 4 was awake and doing something. Many people had taken advantage of an additional offering, where the signal was sent to a private cell phone number.
“There,” he said with a grin. “Everyone knows. Now, do I get a reward?”
“Soon,” Linda replied. “We need to see what she does now.”
Michael made a fake face, as if he were going to start crying, and Linda laughed again. “It won’t be long,” she said.
Michael turned back to the screen and watched Jennifer for a moment or
“Do you think she will find it?” Michael asked.
He did not say what it was, only pointing to the computer screen.
“I put it where she can reach it, if she goes out the limit.”
“Kind of depends on what sort of explorer she is,” Michael said, and Linda nodded.
“I hate it when they just sit there,” Linda said. “Number Three really pissed me off all the time.”
Michael did not reply to this. He was well aware how angry Linda had been with some of Number 3’s behaviors, which had resulted in surprising shifts in the show’s process. “I should pan over, make sure that everyone can see it’s there.”
Linda nodded. “But slowly . . . because they won’t get it at first. I put it so you can’t really tell what it is unless you really look hard. But then, when they figure it out . . .”
She didn’t need to finish her statement.
Michael stretched and sighed. “I should go to the other room. Play with the camera angles.”
Linda put the laptop aside. It was her turn to reach out and run her fingernails across his chest. Then she leaned forward and kissed his thigh.
“Work first, play later,” she said.
“You are insatiable,” he replied. “Which I like.”
Linda put her hands above her head, leaning back provocatively. He bent forward and kissed her. “Tempting,” he said.
“But the job comes first,” she replied, slowly closing her legs together.
She laughed. The two of them dragged themselves from the bed and padded on bare feet down the stairs, like children on Christmas morning, to the living room, where Michael had set up the main studio. As in the other rooms in the rented farmhouse there was little furniture. What dominated the space was a long table with three large computer monitors. Wires went in various directions, snaking across the wooden floor and disappearing through drilled holes. There were speaker systems and several joysticks, along with keyboards and surge controls. An editing board and a sound board also filled the space. In short, Michael had assembled all the high-tech equipment necessary for broadcasting on the Web. Just outside the window there was a portable convex antenna. The room had the same quality as a military operation or a movie set: much expensive equipment, all with specialized capabilities, all operated from a pair of black Aeron desk chairs centered in front of the primary computer.
It was cool in the room, and Linda went to retrieve a pair of faux fur-trimmed L.L. Bean parkas from a hallway to cover their nakedness. She slipped into one and arranged the other across Michael’s shoulders as he bent to the screen. She looked outside at the nighttime beyond the window. She could see nothing except black isolation, which was, at least in part, why they’d rented this particular farmhouse.
“Do you think Number Four even knows what time it is?” she asked.
“Nope.” Michael thought, and then added, “Which means . . . make certain that we don’t help her. You know, by giving her breakfast in the morning or something that is clearly dinner at night. Keep mixing up the meals. Feed her three straight bowls of cereal followed by some burgers. It will help keep her disorientated.”
“I know that, silly,” Linda said.
Michael smiled. He liked it at the moments the two of them discussed the ways that Number 4 could be manipulated. It was the part of the game he most enjoyed. It also energized Linda, which made their own sex more unbridled, more passionate. When it started to slow, that was when he knew to wrap things up.
He took a single joystick marked with a piece of white tape that said camera 3 and moved it slightly. On one of the monitor screens, the angle shifted slightly, revealing an object placed to the side of the bed, opposite the toilet. He moved the joystick forward, giving a closer look.
Linda was at his side, working swiftly with a keyboard, typing rapidly, her fingernails clicking.
On the main monitor—the one that showed what was going out to subscribers—Linda’s typing appeared in red script across the image of Jennifer moving cautiously about, hands outstretched.
There’s something for Number 4 to find.
What is it?
Michael panned camera 3 briefly to a small, misshapen lump on the cement floor. It was at the periphery of the chain’s allowance. Jennifer was still several feet away, and the only way she would discover it was if she continued searching at the limit of her travel. Linda continued at the keyboard.
Will Number 4 locate it?
Michael laughed. “Keep going,” he whispered.
Will it help Number 4?
Linda was typing furiously.
Or will it hurt Number 4?
“Now ask them,” Michael said.
A box appeared on the screen as Linda hit keys.
Find? was followed by a square where one could click a response.
No find? had the same box.
Then there were two more entries.
Help?
Hurt?
Linda turned to the side. An electronic counter was tallying numbers on a different screen.
“They seem to have confidence,” she said, as numbers grew in various columns. “But they are split on whether it will help her or hurt her.” Linda smiled again. “I knew this was a good idea,” she said. “They’re all logging in and they seem pretty damn fascinated.”
Michael concentrated hard on the cameras.
On the main monitor they both watched as Jennifer moved slowly toward the camera. Her hands were out in front of her, her fingers stretched forward, touching nothing except air. Her picture grew increasingly large on the screen. Her hands seemed only inches away when she stopped. She had reached the limit of the chain, fingertips nearly touching the primary camera.
“They will love that,” Linda whispered.
The camera seemed to explore Jennifer’s body, lingering on her slender breasts and then panning down to her crotch. Her underwear seemed little more than a tease. Linda imagined that around the world viewers were reaching out toward Number 4 as if they could touch her through their computer screens. Michael instinctively knew that was what was happening, and he manipulated the cameras expertly, creating a dance with the images. It was stately, like a waltz.
Jennifer backed away and moved a little to her left.
“Ah, she’s got a chance,” Linda said.
She glanced over at the counters, which were rising rapidly.
“I think she’ll get it.”
Michael shook his head. “No way. It’s on the floor. Unless her toe touches it. She’s not thinking vertically enough. She needs to go up and down, to really explore the space.”
“You’re too much of a scientist,” Linda said. “She’ll get it.”
“Want to bet?”
Linda laughed. “Stakes?” she asked.
Michael turned away from the monitor briefly. He grinned like any lover might. “Name ’em,” he said.
“I’ll think of something when I win,” Linda replied. She touched the top of his hand on the joystick, letting her fingers stroke his. This was something of a promise and Michael shuddered with pleasure.
Then they turned back to see if Number 4 would succeed. Or not.
* * *
Jennifer counted each step silently to herself.
She moved cautiously. The bed was behind her but she wanted to reach the wall so that she at least understood the limits of her space. Each small step became a new number in her head.
She kept her hands out in front of her, moving them just slightly, but touching nothing except emptiness.
She maintained a constant tension around her throat, trying to imagine herself a little like a chained dog, but not wanting to throw herself to the limit, like the dog would.
Jennifer had reached eighteen in her cou
It was sudden, unexpected, and she almost fell.
It seemed soft, furlike and alive, and she stumbled backward. Her mind filled with images. Rat!
She wanted to run but could not. She wanted to leap back on the bed, thinking that would keep her safe, and panic filled her. She swung out her arms, punching nothing, and she realized that she had screamed once, maybe twice, and now, inside the hood, her mouth was open wide.
The counting process had evaporated. Whatever numbers she had collected were gone. She took a step and tumbled into utter confusion. She no longer could determine where the wall was, or the bed. The darkness inside the hood seemed to be blacker, more confining, and she shouted, “Get away!” as loud as she could.
The sound of her voice seemed to echo in the room and was replaced by the adrenaline pumping in her ears like the roar of a swollen river. Her heart was pounding in her chest, and she could feel her entire body quiver. She touched the chain—thought that she should use it like she would a line tossed to a drowning person, go hand over hand back to the bed and get her feet off the floor, so whatever it was couldn’t reach her.
She started to do this, then stopped. She listened.
There was no noise of tiny feet running away.
Jennifer took another deep breath. Once there had been a family of mice in the walls of their home, and her mother and Scott had dutifully placed traps and poisons around the house to get rid of them. But what Jennifer remembered in that moment was the unmistakable noise they would make late at night running through the empty spaces behind the wallboard.
There was no similar noise.
Her second thought was, It’s dead. Whatever it is, it’s dead.
She froze in position, sharpening her ears for any sound.
But she could hear only her own heavy breathing.
What was it?
She stopped thinking of a rat, even though it was a basement she was imprisoned in.
She replayed in her mind the instant sensation against her toe and what she might learn from that momentary impression. She tried hard to form a picture in her mind, but it was impossible.