whatever is in the spoon into the syringe.
”What are you doing?“ I ask. ”Are you going to give me an overdose?“
Cyrus holds up the syringe and taps it a couple of times. ”Naw, man. Gonna give you
I try to twist away from the needle, but Blue puts more weight behind his Nike. It feels like a tree trunk pinning me to the floor.
”Get his vein up,“ says Cyrus.
Blue cocks Dad’s Browning, presses the barrel against my forehead, then closes his free hand around my left biceps with an iron grip. ”He got good veins, man.“
Cyrus squats beside me, his black eyes gleaming. Then he slips the needle into my antecubital vein with the casual expertise of a phlebotomist. I don’t feel the prick, but when he depresses the plunger of the syringe, I feel absolute terror.
Blue releases my biceps. Cyrus pats my inner elbow, then gets back up on the bench. ”You’ll find out,“ he says, his eyes shining. ”Here it comes.“
The first thing I feel is a rush of warmth to my stomach, just below my heart. Then it spreads outward, suffusing my limbs with a wholly unfamiliar numbness. Panic balloons in my chest, but just as suddenly the pressure evaporates, and my muscles go limp.
”Don’t fight it,“ urges Cyrus. ”Let it find the place.“
”What…?“
”Jesus Dust,“ says Cyrus.
”Look at his eyes,“ says Blue. ”Shit, dog, he gone now.“
Cyrus laughs deep in his chest.
”Where we going?“ asks an unfamiliar voice.
”You know where,“ says Cyrus. ”You still with us, Mr. Cage?“
I try to answer, but what emerges from my mouth is one long, meaningless syllable.
Blue leans over me and laughs like a father watching his baby trying to speak his first words.
I come awake on a sleeping bag on a hard floor. A metal floor. I roll over and squint against bright fluorescent lights.
”Here he is,“ says a deep voice. ”Here he comes.“
Cyrus is sitting in an office chair about eight feet away from me, his elbows on his knees, his dark eyes on me. The huge man called Blue leans against the wall behind him.
”How you feel?“ asks Cyrus.
”I don’t know. Weird.“
”That’s the dust. You never done heroin?“
A ripple of shock courses through me, but the reaction is strangely muted. ”No.“
Cyrus nods happily. ”Sweet, ain’t it?“
My watch is gone. So is my cell phone. ”What time is it?“
”Party time!“ laughs Cyrus.
”Oh, yeah,“ says Blue. His voice can’t be much higher than Barry White’s.
”Where are we?“
”Look around,“ suggests Cyrus. ”You don’t know?“
The room appears to be a laboratory of some sort. Thirty feet wide by forty feet long, it contains several pieces of what appears to be industrial electrical equipment. In the far corner, a Naugahyde recliner sits before a small television on a counter. A sleeper sofa stands against another wall. Against the wall to my right is some sort of mechanical cart. Emblazoned on its steel side is a blue trident with the letters ”TBC“ beneath it.
”Triton Battery?“ I ask.
Cyrus nods. ”My old employer. They helping me out now in ways they never dreamed.“
”I used to work here, too. The summer after my freshman year in college.“
”Yeah? Most everybody worked here at one time or other. Here or IP.“
The Triton Battery Company came to Natchez in 1936 to build batteries for Pullman railcars. In 1940 they retooled the line to manufacture batteries for diesel submarines. After the war it was truck batteries, marine batteries, whatever fit the changing market. When the plant shut down three years ago, Triton was using its ancient equipment to produce motorcycle batteries for European and Asian manufacturers.
”What part of the plant are we in?“
”Testing area. It’s the only part where the air-conditioning still works. This and the guardhouse. This is my temporary crib.“
If I’m not dead, it’s because Cyrus needs me alive for something. Probably information. Again Jaderious’s stories of torture zing through my head. How should I play it? Tell everything I know right away? Or hold something back so that I’ll have something to ”give up“ later? A predator like Cyrus won’t believe I’ve revealed everything until he sweats something out of me. But what does he want to know?
”What am I doing here?“
”You on ice, man. That’s what they call it in the gangster movies.“
”Why am I on ice?“
”’Cause I can’t have you running around town stirring up shit and causing aggravation. Old Shad’s got the right idea, and we need to let him get his business done.“
”Are you talking about the trial? Or the election?“
Cyrus looks puzzled. ”The mayor’s election?“
I nod.
”What you got to do with that?“
”Nothing.“
”I’m talking about the
Of course. ”You don’t want me investigating Kate’s murder?“
At the mention of her name, the humor vanishes from Cyrus’s eyes. ”Like I said, I can’t have you stirring up any shit. And you been stirring up a lot of it this past week.“
With drug-induced stupidity, I say, ”Did you kill her, Cyrus?“
His bullet head draws back on his neck. ”You think I did that?“
”I don’t know. I know you wanted to sleep with her.“
A slow, almost reptilian blink. ”Yeah, I wanted her.“
”But she didn’t want you.“
He looks over at Blue, then studies me in silence.
”I read your e-mails,“ I say softly. ”You threatened her.“
The drug dealer’s black eyes flash with anger. He gets up from his chair, closes the distance between us, and squats beside me. ”That wasn’t any of your business, you know?“
”You’re right. I just…it’s the dope talking.“
Cyrus flexes his right forearm as though doing imaginary curls. ”Everybody know who killed that bitch anyway, right?“
”Who?“
”Dr. Elliott.“
An image of Cyrus tracking Kate’s cell phone by computer comes into my head. But arguing with him about Kate’s murder under these circumstances could be suicidal. ”How long am I going to be here?“
”That depends. How long you think the trial will take?“
”A week, maybe?“
”That’s how long you gonna be here, then.“
When Blue first dragged me into the van and I saw Cyrus’s face, I was certain I would die. When that fear lessened, the horror of torture rose in me. But now the reality is settling in: I’m going to be held prisoner until
