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