Gone Tomorrow

Sheraton. The second time I had made that trip. It took just as long. Crowded sidewalks, people moving slow in the heat. It was one o’clock in the afternoon, and very warm. I was watching for cops the whole way, which didn’t aid our progress. But we got there in the end. The plasma screen in the lobby listed a whole bunch of events. The ballroom was booked by a trade association. Something to do with cable television. Which made me think of the National Geographic Channel, and the silverback gorilla.
    Springfield opened the door to the business center with his key card. He didn’t come in with me. He told me he would wait in the lobby, and then he walked away. Three of the four work stations were occupied. Two women, one man, all of them in dark suits, all of them with leather briefcases propped open and spilling paper. I took the empty chair and set about trying to figure out how to play a DVD on a computer. I found a slot on the tower unit that looked fit for the purpose. I pushed the disc in and met with some temporary resistance and then a motor whirred and the unit sucked at the disc and pulled it from my grasp.
    Nothing much happened for five seconds. Just a lot of stopping and starting and whirring. Then a big window opened on the screen. It was blank. But it had a graphic in the bottom corner. Like a picture of a DVD player’s buttons. Play, pause, fast forward, rewind, skip. I moved the mouse and the pointer arrow changed to a chubby little hand as it passed over the buttons.
    The phone in my pocket started to vibrate.

Chapter 63
    I took the phone out of my pocket and opened it up. Glanced around the room. My three temporary colleagues were all hard at work. One had a bar chart on her screen. Columns of bold bright colors, some of them high, some of them low. The man was reading e-mail. The other woman was typing fast.
    I put the phone to my ear and said, “Hello.”
    Lila Hoth asked, “Have you got it yet?”
    I said, “Yes.”
    “Have you watched it yet?”
    “No.”
    “I think you should.”
    “Why?”
    “You’ll find it educational.”
    I glanced again at the occupants of the room and asked, “Is there sound on it?”
    “No, it’s a silent movie. Unfortunately. It would be better with sound.”
    I didn’t answer.
    She asked, “Where are you?”
    “In a hotel business center.”
    “The Four Seasons?”
    “No.”
    “Are there computers in the business center?”
    “Yes.”
    “You can play a DVD on a computer, you know.”
    “So I was told.”
    “Can anyone else see the screen?”
    I didn’t answer.
    “Play it,” she said. “I’ll stay on the line. I’ll do a commentary. Like a special edition.”
    I didn’t answer.
    She said, “Like a director’s cut,” and laughed a little.
    I moved the mouse and put the chubby little hand over the play button. It waited there, patiently.
    I clicked the mouse.
    The tower unit made more whirring sounds and the blank window on the screen lit up and showed two distorted horizontal lines. They flashed twice and then the picture settled to a wide-angle view of an open outdoor space. It was night. The camera was steady. Mounted high on a tripod, I guessed. The scene was brightly lit by harsh halogen lights just out of shot. The color was raw. The space looked foreign. Beaten earth, a dark khaki tone. Small stones and one large rock. The rock was flat, bigger than a king-sized bed. It had been drilled and fitted with four iron rings. One at each corner.
    There was a naked man tied to the rings. He was short and thin and wiry. He had olive skin and a black beard. He was maybe thirty years old. He was on his back, stretched into a wide X shape. The camera was positioned maybe a yard from his feet. At the top of the picture his head was jerking from side to side. His eyes were closed. His mouth was open. Tendons in his neck stood out like ropes.
    He was screaming, but I couldn’t hear him.
    It was a silent movie.
    Lila Hoth spoke in my ear.
    She asked, “What are you seeing?”
    I said, “A guy on a slab.”
    “Keep watching.”
    “Who is he?”
    “He was a taxi driver who ran an errand for an American journalist.”
    The camera angle was about forty-five degrees, I guessed. It made the taxi driver’s feet look large and his head look small. He thrashed and bucked for a whole minute. He was raising his head and banging it down on the rock. Trying to knock himself out. Or trying to kill himself, maybe. No luck. A slender figure ducked