Once he was fairly sure he could do so without appearing ferocious, he looked over at Bret. Made the unspoken request, knew Bret understood it.
Bret stepped closer again, moved behind Frank. Hesitated only slightly before he removed the gag.
Frank stretched his jaw, rubbed his tethered hands against his face.
“Thanks,” he said. “Where are we?”
Bret shook his head. “I can’t tell you that, of course. But we’ve moved. I should warn you that it would be as dangerous for you to harm me or to try to leave this place as it was to leave the tent.”
“Where’s Samuel?”
“He’ll be along later. He’ll be bringing his friend, Faye.” He paused, then said, “Would you like me to help you step out of there?”
More than just about anything, he thought, but simply said, “Yes, thanks.”
Awkwardly, unable to move his legs freely or use his hands for proper leverage, he climbed out of the trunk with Bret’s help. He saw other trunks stacked along one wall, although not as many as he had seen in the tent. The IV bottle and pole stood in one corner, near a folded bed. He decided he must have awakened while Bret was still in the process of setting up after the move.
His gaze traveled to a steep staircase that led up to a closed metal door. At the foot of the stairs there was an alarm keypad, its lights red — indicating it was armed.
He moved slowly, still dizzy from the drugs, weakened by the long hours under their influence. Bret watched him but did not prevent him from walking a few paces, dragging the chain as he moved. There was a small bathroom with a single shower stall, a few simple furnishings. The walls were brick lined, the floor concrete.
There were no windows, but the room was brightly lit. A panel of electronic equipment had been installed on one wall, including a phone, four small television monitors, and what seemed to be videotaping equipment. None of the monitors were on. For all this modern equipment, the building itself appeared to be old.
How much time had passed? Was he still in Las Piernas? In California? In the U.S.?
He turned to see that Bret had picked up a deck of cards, was idly shuffling, bridging, fanning, and moving them through his fingers with a dexterity that Frank found fascinating. Watching Bret distracted him from his fears, allowed him to relax a little more.
“You’re very talented,” he said as Bret completed a particularly complex series of flourishes.
Bret shrugged. “An amateur, really.”
“I’d like to see you perform magic someday.”
For the first time in all the time Frank had watched him practice these tricks, Bret dropped a card. The young man bent to pick it up, then set the deck on a small table. “That would have been nice — letting you see what I’ve learned,” he said. “Perhaps I’ll show you how a few of the tricks are done. We won’t have an opportunity for more than that, I’m afraid.”
“Why not?” Frank said.
“You already know,” Bret said patiently, without any sign of irritation. “I’ll be dead. We’ve been over this before.”
“What’s the rush? You can always die later,” Frank said. “That’s something any of us can do — all of us will do.”
Bret picked up the cards again but held them still in his hands. “Not the way we will.”
“You don’t really want to die, do you? This has to do with Samuel.”
“Do you know the story ‘The Outcasts of Poker Flat,’ by Bret Harte?” he asked, shuffling, fanning, then extending the pack to Frank — an invitation to participate in a trick. “I’m named for him, you know.”
Frank shook his head, tried to hide his frustration. Every time he approached this topic, Bret changed the subject.
But Bret didn’t tell the tale, as Frank thought he might. Instead he folded the deck again and said,“Samuel is damaged. So am I, even if it’s not so readily apparent to you. We aren’t whole, Frank. We don’t fit in.”
“No one fits in, Bret. Not completely. Not the way you imagine it. No one.”
“You do.”
Frank laughed. “When you took me from Riverside — at Ross’s house?”
Bret flinched at the memory but nodded.
“That morning, I had a huge argument with my wife — part of a fight that had been going on for a couple of days — my mother wasn’t speaking to me, and I was happy to get out of the office, where I was being shunned after you planted that story in the paper—”
“What story?” Bret interrupted.
“About the arrests of Lang and Colson.”
“That wasn’t us.”
“But the details of the arrests—”
“No,” Bret said again. “We didn’t have anything to do with that story.”
Frank stared at him in disbelief, then quickly realized Bret had no reason to lie to him.
“What’s wrong?” Bret asked, setting down the cards.
