swear, I felt worse when a neighbor poisoned my dog. I liked that dog.”
Arden felt his sorrow.
“You wanna know why I target Middle America? White, middle-class families? Because they are the biggest frauds of all. I hate frauds. I hate phonies, and all them little towns scattered across the Midwest are as phony as they come. How do I know that? Because I grew up in one. All Mom and apple pie is what it seems like to the outside world. People look at them and wonder what’s wrong with their own life.”
Arden nodded and the bell clanged again.
It was true. Everything was true.
“I hate those fucks. Life is dirty. And life don’t mean nearly as much as they think it does.”
The voice went on to tell about another set of murders he’d committed, and another.
“But I have my apprentices,” he said. “We all have to have apprentices. People to carry on our work when we’re gone. People to keep the flame of anarchy alive. I agreed to this recording so the truth could be told. Not some twisted media version of the truth that’s only about forty percent truth and the rest something that’ll be turned into a Hollywood movie. I’m all about the truth. When they make a movie about me, I want it to be accurate.” There was a slapping sound, like hands clapping. “Long live Albert French.”
“Long live Albert French,” Arden whispered. Her voice echoed back at her.
Chapter 12
The voice stopped.
Arden held her breath, hoping it would start again.
Silence.
Silence and darkness.
A confused awareness of immediate space slowly crept into her consciousness.
A box. A container. Something coffin like.
Awareness of self slowly followed.
She was in the box. In the darkness.
Floating.
Arden heard the sound of clanging metal. Of locks being undone.
The lid to the box lifted and bright light blinded her. She tried to raise her hand to shield her eyes, but her arms wouldn’t move.
“Turn off the overhead light,” said a voice that was so muffled Arden couldn’t tell if it belonged to a man or a woman. “It’s hurting her eyes.”
The brightness faded.
Two people, male and female, leaning over her.
Doing something to her wrists and ankles. Had she been restrained?
“Got the IV?” the woman asked.
“Out,” replied the man.
“Here’s a Band-Aid.”
Tearing paper, then something being taped to the back of her hand.
“Can you sit up?”
The woman was talking to her. To Arden.
Hands gripped her elbows and shoulders. They pulled her forward. Water gushed with the movement, following her, trying to cling but having to finally give up and settle about her waist.
“There you go,” the woman said happily.
One ear popped, and suddenly Arden could hear the hum of the room, hear the room breathing.
Cold air hit her chest. A shiver went through her.
“The sooner we get you outta here, the sooner you can have a warm shower,” the woman said.
Grasping her by both arms, they pulled her to her feet, water sloshing.
Naked.
In some far-off part of her mind, she knew her nudity was something she should care about—but she didn’t. Did a baby feel self-conscious when it was born?
They wrapped her in a blanket. It didn’t help. She was so cold. Freezing.
“Step out of the tank,” the guy told her.
She looked down.
Even though they’d dimmed the lights, Arden’s vision was all screwed up. There was a film over her eyes, and a shifting, reddish aura around everything. As if she’d been pressing her hands to her eyelids.
But she could make out a pair of pale legs that must be hers. She could feel them trembling violently.
Would they ask a newborn to stand?
“Come on,” the woman encouraged. Fingertips moved across her shoulder, pressing through the blanket.
Arden liked the woman. She had a coaxing, motherly voice. The guy, on the other hand, seemed hard. Impatient.
Like the male nurse in Harvey . Yeah. She loved that movie. And hadn’t Jimmy Stewart been great? They wouldn’t dare
Arden felt his sorrow.
“You wanna know why I target Middle America? White, middle-class families? Because they are the biggest frauds of all. I hate frauds. I hate phonies, and all them little towns scattered across the Midwest are as phony as they come. How do I know that? Because I grew up in one. All Mom and apple pie is what it seems like to the outside world. People look at them and wonder what’s wrong with their own life.”
Arden nodded and the bell clanged again.
It was true. Everything was true.
“I hate those fucks. Life is dirty. And life don’t mean nearly as much as they think it does.”
The voice went on to tell about another set of murders he’d committed, and another.
“But I have my apprentices,” he said. “We all have to have apprentices. People to carry on our work when we’re gone. People to keep the flame of anarchy alive. I agreed to this recording so the truth could be told. Not some twisted media version of the truth that’s only about forty percent truth and the rest something that’ll be turned into a Hollywood movie. I’m all about the truth. When they make a movie about me, I want it to be accurate.” There was a slapping sound, like hands clapping. “Long live Albert French.”
“Long live Albert French,” Arden whispered. Her voice echoed back at her.
Chapter 12
The voice stopped.
Arden held her breath, hoping it would start again.
Silence.
Silence and darkness.
A confused awareness of immediate space slowly crept into her consciousness.
A box. A container. Something coffin like.
Awareness of self slowly followed.
She was in the box. In the darkness.
Floating.
Arden heard the sound of clanging metal. Of locks being undone.
The lid to the box lifted and bright light blinded her. She tried to raise her hand to shield her eyes, but her arms wouldn’t move.
“Turn off the overhead light,” said a voice that was so muffled Arden couldn’t tell if it belonged to a man or a woman. “It’s hurting her eyes.”
The brightness faded.
Two people, male and female, leaning over her.
Doing something to her wrists and ankles. Had she been restrained?
“Got the IV?” the woman asked.
“Out,” replied the man.
“Here’s a Band-Aid.”
Tearing paper, then something being taped to the back of her hand.
“Can you sit up?”
The woman was talking to her. To Arden.
Hands gripped her elbows and shoulders. They pulled her forward. Water gushed with the movement, following her, trying to cling but having to finally give up and settle about her waist.
“There you go,” the woman said happily.
One ear popped, and suddenly Arden could hear the hum of the room, hear the room breathing.
Cold air hit her chest. A shiver went through her.
“The sooner we get you outta here, the sooner you can have a warm shower,” the woman said.
Grasping her by both arms, they pulled her to her feet, water sloshing.
Naked.
In some far-off part of her mind, she knew her nudity was something she should care about—but she didn’t. Did a baby feel self-conscious when it was born?
They wrapped her in a blanket. It didn’t help. She was so cold. Freezing.
“Step out of the tank,” the guy told her.
She looked down.
Even though they’d dimmed the lights, Arden’s vision was all screwed up. There was a film over her eyes, and a shifting, reddish aura around everything. As if she’d been pressing her hands to her eyelids.
But she could make out a pair of pale legs that must be hers. She could feel them trembling violently.
Would they ask a newborn to stand?
“Come on,” the woman encouraged. Fingertips moved across her shoulder, pressing through the blanket.
Arden liked the woman. She had a coaxing, motherly voice. The guy, on the other hand, seemed hard. Impatient.
Like the male nurse in Harvey . Yeah. She loved that movie. And hadn’t Jimmy Stewart been great? They wouldn’t dare
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