He heard a metallic screech and decided, after a moment, that it was the sound of a door opening, and then changed that to suspect strongly that it was the sound a gate in a Cyclone fence-as those surrounding a tennis court-makes when being opened.
The vehicle moved a short distance forward. Ketcham heard the sound of the squeaking gate again. The vehicle tilted as if someone had gotten in the front seat. The door slammed shut and the vehicle drove off.
Ketcham sensed that they were no longer on a paved road, and confirmation of this came when the vehicle, moving slowly, encountered one hole in the road after another.
What are they doing? Taking me out in the woods someplace to kill me?
But if they wanted to kill me, they had ample opportunity in my garage.
If they're not going to kill me, then what? They must want something from me. What?
If this is a case of mistaken identity, which seems as likely an answer as anything else I've been able to come up with, then there will be the opportunity to clear things up, to let them know I'm not who they are looking for.
Or, even if it's not a case of mistaken identity, if they want something from me-maybe they know I'm a stockbroker, and think we keep large amounts of cash around the office. They're Italian, they could be the Mafia. That sounds like something the Mafia would do. And they might not know the only cash around the office is in the petty-cash box, and I don't even know of any negotiable instruments at all. Anyway, if they do want something from me, there will certainly be an opportunity to talk, to negotiate.
Those thoughts made Ketcham feel better.
After two or three minutes of lurching down what Ketcham was now convinced was an unpaved road, the vehicle moved onto a solid, flat, and thus presumably paved surface and stopped.
There was the sound of two doors being opened, the sense of shifting as if two persons had left the vehicle, and the doors slammed shut.
Then Ketcham heard the rear doors of the vehicle being opened.
'Cut that shit off his legs,' a voice ordered.
There was a clicking sound, which Ketcham decided just might be the sound of a switchblade, and a sensation of sawing around his ankles. He felt the pressure that had been holding his ankles together go away.
Ketcham was dragged out of the Suburban and set on his feet. He felt a hand on each arm, as if there was a man on each side of him.
He was pushed into motion. Without quite knowing why, he sensed that he had entered some kind of a building. The sense grew stronger as he was guided down what he now believed to be a corridor, and confirmation came when he was stopped, and heard the sound of a door-a heavy metal door, he deduced. Where am I? In a factory? Or a garage? — being opened.
Ketcham was pushed through the door, led fifteen feet inside, and stopped.
'Cut his hands loose,' the same voice ordered, and again there was the sort of slick clicking sound a switchblade knife made, and again the sawing sensation, this time at his wrists.
And then they were free.
'Without taking the coat off your head, take off your clothes,' the same voice ordered.
'What?' Ketcham asked incredulously.
This earned him a blow in the face.
That wasn't a fist. That was something hard. A stick perhaps. Or perhaps a gun.
'Without taking the coat off your head, take off your clothes,' the same voice repeated.
The one thing I cannot afford to do, Ketcham told himself, is lose control of myself. They want me to take off my clothes, very well, I will take off my clothes-meanwhile, waiting patiently, and carefully, for my opportunity.
With some difficulty, Ketcham removed the jacket of his dark blue, faintly striped blue suit. Without thinking what he was doing, he held the suit jacket out, as if waiting for someone to take it from him and hang it up.
A snicker made Ketcham realize that no one was going to take the jacket from him. He let it slip from his fingers.
Ketcham next removed his necktie, and tried to drop that on top of his suit jacket. Then he pushed his braces off his shoulders, loosened the snap and opened the fly of his trousers, and somewhat awkwardly removed his trousers, which he then attempted to drop atop his jacket, tie, and shirt.
'I won't be able to remove my undershirt,' he began, trying to sound as polite and reasonable as possible.
Ketcham was then struck upon the face again, which caused him to lose his balance and fall backward onto the floor.
'What he means,' a new voice said, 'is that he can't get his undershirt off without taking the overcoat off his head.'
'Fuck the undershirt, then,' the first, now familiar voice replied. 'Take off your shorts and your shoes and socks.'
Ketcham complied. He was now naked save for the overcoat over his head and upper body, and his undershirt, sitting on the floor. The floor was cold.
From its consistency, Ketcham decided the cold floor was concrete, which tended to buttress his suspicion that he was in a garage, or a factory of some sort.
'Get up,' the familiar voice ordered.
Ketcham complied.
'Hold your hands out in front of you, together,' the familiar voice added.
Ketcham complied, and almost immediately felt his wrists again being tied together.
There was a short burst of derisive laughter.
'Christ, look at his cock,' a third voice, previously unheard, said. 'Angelina's Chihuahua's got a bigger cock.'
There were chuckles of agreement.
'Shut your fucking mouth!' the familiar voice said.
I will remember that when this is over and I'm out of here, Ketcham decided with some satisfaction. One of these thugs has a wife, or girlfriend, named Angelina, who has a Chihuahua.
Then nothing happened, except for what Ketcham believed to be the sound of shuffling feet, and what could have been the sound of the door being closed.
It was cold wherever he was, and Ketcham felt himself start to shiver.
That should really please the thug who thinks my penis is funny, when he sees me standing here naked and shivering.
I will not lose control. I will wait until whatever is going to happen happens.
Five minutes later, very carefully, Ketcham uttered one word.
'Hello?'
There was no reply.
Thirty seconds after that, Ketcham spoke again:
'Hello? Is anyone there?'
There was no reply.
Obviously, there is no one here. If there was, and I was not supposed to have spoken, they would have hit me again.
Will someone be coming back?
What would they do to me if they came back and found that I had somehow been able to remove the overcoat over my head?
Two minutes after that, after having debated the question with himself carefully, Ketcham decided to attempt to remove the overcoat that covered his head and upper body.
Doing so was easier than he thought it would be. By maneuvering his shoulders while holding one side of the coat with his bound-together hands, he was able to get the coat off first one shoulder and then the other, and when that was done, he was able to untie the tape holding the coat around his neck.
But when Ketcham had removed the coat, he could see absolutely nothing. There was no light of any kind whatever in the room. He suddenly felt faint and dizzy, and dropped to his knees, and then moved to a sitting position. The floor under his buttocks was rough and cold.
