The Collection

eight-ball and a pool cue. The building was flanked on both sides by vacant lots in which tumbleweeds and cacti grew in abundance. Jimmy looked at me. 'You have your wallet?'

'In my front pocket,' I said. 'I'm taking no chances.'

We got out of the Jeep and walked across the gravel parking lot to the door of the building. Jimmy pulled open the door and walked in.

A table was situated right next to the entrance. On the table was a metal cashbox and two stacks of papers, each weighted down with chunks of rock. A fat, bearded man who looked like Charlie Daniels nodded at us from behind the table. 'Thirty-five,' he said.

Jimmy pulled two twenties from his pocket, and the man gave him a five. 'Sign the release,' the man said.

I paid my money, then looked over the form the man gave me. It was a pseudo-legal document which stated that I knew exactly what was occurring there tonight and that I was directly involved in the actions. I didn't know if such a document would hold up in court, but I understood that the people in charge were trying to intimidate the viewers from talking about what they'd seen. I signed on the line at the bottom.

The man glanced over the form. 'Address and driver's li­cense,' he said, handing it back to me.

I felt suddenly afraid, intimidated myself, but I filled out the information anyway. I followed Jimmy down a short, dark hallway.

We went into a large, crowded room. In the center of the room, a woman was tied naked to a chair. Her mouth was gagged, but her eyes looked wildly around, as if searching for some means of escape. There were large bruises and welts on her white skin. Standing around the woman in a rough semicircle, quiet and shuffling, were thirty or forty people, mostly men, some women. Next to the chair, on a table, was a pistol, two knives, a screwdriver, a hammer, a hacksaw, and a length of wire.

Jimmy and I stood silently with the rest of the crowd. I felt suddenly sick to my stomach. I could see from the bound woman's frantic eyes that she was scared to death. She was about to be killed. And all of the people standing impassively around her had paid money to watch her die.

I stared at my shoes, looked around the unfurnished room, counted the cracks in the plaster ceiling—anything to keep from looking into the haunted eyes of the doomed woman. Once I glanced toward her, and I saw her squirming crazily, trying to release herself from her bonds, but the ropes were tight and the gag was securely in place. I looked quickly away.

Finally, a man came in and began setting up a videotape camera. He brought with him two sets of lights, which he placed at right angles to the woman. The room, which had been warm, grew even warmer with the lights, and the still air was heavy with human sweat. I was not sure I'd be able to stay for this.

And then the cameraman took off the woman's gag and she started screaming. Her voice was high, raw, filled with utter terror, and her screams came in short staccato bursts. The cameraman began filming. I put my hands over my ears. The people around me watched dully, their faces un­readable.

A man wearing a woman's stocking over his head came into the room and walked up to the woman. He pawed her naked body, touching her everywhere. She struggled so hard to get away from him that the chair tipped over. He calmly righted it and continued with his exploration of her body.

The whole thing lasted little more than half an hour. The stockinged man used the hacksaw to cut off big toes and fin­gers. He used the wire to tie breasts. The smell of sweat in the enclosed room was soon overpowered by the stronger smell of blood and death.

The man used both knives.

She was already unconscious from the hammer blows when he shot her in the head.

I had seen it all, I had not thrown up, I had not turned away. But I felt filthy, unclean, covered with blood although none of the flying blood had touched me. The document I had signed had been right—I was part of the murder, I was responsible. And I felt as guilty as if I had been wielding the knives.

I said nothing to Jimmy on the way back, and I got into my pickup without even saying goodbye.

At home, my parents had finished fighting. My mom was sobbing in the bedroom, and my dad was drinking from a bottle and watching TV. He looked accusingly at me as I let myself in. 'Where the hell have you been all night?' he de­manded.

'Jimmy's,' I said.

He turned back to the TV, and I walked down the hall to my bedroom.

In my dreams, the woman was naked and screaming and begging for her life. And I smashed her face with the ham­mer, bringing it down again and again and again.

I did not call Jimmy for two weeks.

He did not call me.

When Jimmy finally did call, his voice was worried, scared. 'Did you get anything in the mail lately?' he asked straight out.

'Like what?'

'Can you come over?' he asked. 'Now?'

I didn't really want to go over to Jimmy's, but something in his voice told me that I should. 'I'll be right there,' I said.

My parents were arguing again. Or rather, my dad was arguing. My mom was crying incoherently, obviously drunk. She had been drunk a lot this past week, and she had been less willing to engage him in battle than usual. I wasn't sure if that was a good sign or not.

I drove to Jimmy's with the windows down. It was cooler tonight, and there was no need for the air conditioner.

He was again sitting on the hood of his Jeep, just as he had on the night we'd gone to the snuff show. Merely seeing him again made me feel unclean, brought back to me the horrible depravity of that night, and my stomach started churning. I remembered that he'd said he'd gone the night before, and I wondered if he'd gone since then. I could not imagine anyone wanting to sit through that butchery more than once.

He came toward me, and I saw that he was carrying a piece of paper in his hand. 'Did you get one of these?' he asked.

I took the paper from him. It was a cheaply printed flyer from the snuff show. 'Thinking of Suicide?' the headline read. 'If your life is not worth living, do not end it alone. Call us and we will help you put an end to your misery.' Underneath this was a telephone number.

'Jesus,' I said. 'We're on their mailing list.'

'My sister almost found this,' Jimmy said. He looked at it again. 'I mean, it doesn't really look that suspicious or anything, but...' His voice trailed off.

There was silence between us for a moment. 'Have you gone back since?' I asked.

He shook his head. 'You?'

'No.' I looked at him. 'How come you went back a sec­ond time?'

He shrugged. 'I thought it might be fun.'

'Fun.' I got back into my pickup and took off, without even looking at Jimmy. I wondered how he slept at night. I wondered if he had nightmares.

Driving home, the streets and buildings all seemed dirty and dingy.

I spent most of the next day in Metro Center, keeping out of the heat, staying within the artificial environment of the mall. I saw no one I knew, which was just as well. I went through bookstores, record stores, clothing stores, trying to sort out the thoughts in my head.

It was after six when I finally got back home, and no one was around. I went into the kitchen to make myself a sand­wich and saw the flyer on the table.

'Thinking of Suicide?'

On the floor next to the table were three crumpled sheets of stationery. I picked one up and uncrumpled it. 'Dear Dan,' it said in my mother's handwriting. I picked up the next ball of paper. 'Dear Dan,' it said. She had gotten no further on her last note. There was only my name again: 'Dear Dan.'

'No!' I screamed aloud.

I ran out to the pickup and drove over to Jimmy's. He was out of the house before I was halfway up the lawn. 'What's up?' he asked, puzzled.

'Get in the truck!' I screamed. 'We have to get to the show!'