Man of Wax by Robert Swartwood Read Free Book Online

fetishes we never want to tell anybody else about, not even our wives or girlfriends. It’s what makes us human, Ben, what sets us apart from the rest of the animals in the world.”  
    “How ... how do you know all of this?”  
    “It’s possible to know everything about anyone, if you have the proper resources. Your full name is Benjamin Jacob Anderson. You’re thirty-two years old. You were born into a poor family, your father a painter, your mother a dry cleaner. You went to high school in York, Pennsylvania. You got pretty good grades, graduated with a three-point-four. You ended up going to Penn State’s York campus for English, because you wanted to be a lawyer. But you were only there for two semesters. Though, actually, that’s not quite true, is it? You went one full semester, then only a few weeks into the second before dropping out. Something happened that made you question everything. What happened there? I already know, but I want you to tell me. Come on, Simon says tell me what happened.”  
    I opened my mouth, started to speak, shut it. Just kept my attention on the road.  
    “I understand it’s difficult for you,” Simon said. “Her name was Michelle Delaney. She was a sophomore. She was at the same party you went to, she and her boyfriend. I’ll at least give you that much. But tell me what her boyfriend did. Tell me what you did.”  
    “There’s ... there’s no way you can know that. There’s no goddamn way.”  
    “Keep telling yourself that, Ben. Keep telling yourself that none of this is real.”
    On his last couple words his voice had made a strange sound. I glanced at the phone, saw that it only had one bar left.  
    “You’re cutting out.”  
    “Am I? Well, I’m surprised it hasn’t happened yet. I should go now anyhow. Give you some time to think. Turn the phone off in the meantime. I don’t intend on talking to you for the next couple hours. Besides, all you have is driving ahead of you. Stop for gas when you need it, buy whatever you’d like, but remember: I see what you see, I hear what you hear, I know what you know. Use the map you bought at the gas station to get you where you need to be headed. Turn the phone back on when you start passing through Doyle.”  
    The road was beginning to straighten out some. Ahead the endless stretch of trees of one of California’s many national forests rose in the distance.  
    “Where am I going?”  
    For some reason I didn’t expect Simon to answer me, but he said, “The Biggest Little City in the World: Reno, Nevada.”  
    “And what”—I swallowed again, my throat still dry—“why am I going there?”  
    Again, I didn’t expect him to answer. I expected him to give me some bullshit about how it wasn’t any of my business to know. But then, right before he disconnected, he told me, that grin once more palpable in his voice.  
    “There’s a young woman there just dying to meet you.”

 
     
     
    10

    From where I’d entered Six Rivers National Park near Willow Creek, to where I finally started seeing signs for Doyle, California, roughly six hours passed. I took 299 all the way to Redding, the first true solid sign of modern Americana in the past couple hours. I stopped for gas and then took a long piss in the bathroom, having downed both bottles of water. I stocked up on snacks while I was inside, more pretzels and soda and even some beef jerky. I also bought a Snickers bar, if not to spite Simon, then to at least make amends for the one I’d lifted and then eaten. The wrapper—the only evidence of my crime—lay in the trash out by the pumps, along with the pretzel bag and the empty pack of smokes. At the counter, I thought long and hard, and asked the girl for a carton.  
    Outside, I paused by the payphones. I considered calling Marshall again. Just what I would tell him I still wasn’t sure—Simon saying I hear what you hear kept reverberating in my head—but I wanted to tell him something.