Page 32 of The Lie Maker

“What’s this for?” I asked.

“Blindfold yourself.”

“You’re kidding.”

“This is what you asked for,” she said. “You want to meet this guy? Put it on.”

I took the cloth and tied it around my head. The fabric was thick and completely shrouded my vision, but Gwen wasn’t happy with how I’d done it.

“Hang on,” she said. I felt her fingers on my face, tugging down on the cloth, pulling out the wrinkles and broadening the blindfold, as if I might see a sliver of light at the bottom. I could smell some scent on her fingers, something nice, and as her fingers brushed my cheeks I had a rush of feelings. Anxiety, anticipation, and—I can’t explain it, but I was a little turned on.

“Good?” she asked.

“Just peachy,” I said.

The van picked up speed. We made a slew of lefts and rights and then I felt the vehicle climbing, as though we were on a ramp. Then we picked up speed, suggesting we were on the highway, clicking along at sixty, seventy miles per hour. The Mass Pike, maybe. But then I thought, Maybe not. The turnpike was a toll road. Would they want to take a chance that they’d be spotted at one of the tollbooths with a blindfolded dude in the back seat? Sure, they could flash their government ID and get waved on through, but that might take time or require an explanation. So maybe we were on a different route.

Scorsese, behind the wheel, kept jumping from radio station to radio station until Gwen finally snapped, “Could you just pick one and stick with it?”

He did.

Unable to look at my watch, I was losing track of how much time we’d been traveling. I estimated we’d been on the road for more than thirty minutes but less than an hour when I heard the familiar click of a turn signal, the van decelerating, then turning onto what presumably was an off-ramp. We were making more stops now, more turns, and likely not getting above fifty.

And then I heard gravel crunching under the tires. We were moving at a crawl, and did so for about half a minute. Then, we stopped. The engine died. Even before the side door opened, I could hear some kind of din, as if someone not far away was operating a chain saw. I heard the side door slide open, and the sound became louder.

“You may take off the blindfold,” Gwen said. “Leave it on the seat for the trip back.”

I untied the cloth and blinked a few times as my eyes adjusted to daylight. It was a cloudy, gray, overcast day. I grabbed my notebook, got out of the van, and took in my surroundings.

Before me was what I guess one would call a cabin. That makes it sound more rustic than it actually was. It was a well-tended, single-story structure, about thirty feet wide, with a porch running along the entire front. The place was painted dark brown, and there were flower boxes mounted under the windows. I didn’t know a gladiola from a geranium, but the boxes were filled with colorful plants. If I were guessing, the place had been built back in the forties, maybe even earlier, and been subjected to some restoration work over the years. The cabin was set in a small clearing in the middle of a forested area. Those woods looked dark and thick. If there were any nearby neighbors, I couldn’t see them.

The noise I’d heard was coming from the house. It was music, if you could call it that. Some kind of loud techno, like a million electric fingernails scraping down a vibrating blackboard. The cabin’s front windows, which from where I stood appeared to be screened, were all open, allowing the music to broadcast far beyond the cabin walls.

“Jesus,” Gwen said, getting out of the van behind me. “How many times do I have to tell him...”

I glanced back at the van and our driver, who was staying put. Scorsese could scan as many stations as he wanted now, what with Gwen heading for the house. I followed her up the two steps to the porch and stood behind her as she knocked on the door.

The first knock wasn’t loud enough to be heard by anyone inside. She made a fist and banged on it half a dozen times.

“It’s us!” she shouted.

The music stopped. Seconds later, I could hear the turning of a dead bolt and the release of a chain, neither of which struck me as providing much in the way of protection out here in the middle of the woods. If you were a bad guy, you’d just kick the door in, or blow out the windows with your high-powered rifle. Or, since they were open, kick in the screens. But what the hell did I know. I was just the writer guy. I left security to the experts.

The door opened.

A short man, about forty, looked out at us through wire-rimmed glasses. He was bald on top, but he’d let hair on the sides of his head grow down almost to his shoulders.

“This the guy?” he asked Gwen.

“What have I told you about blasting that fucking awful noise?” she said. “You’re supposed to be in hiding, not broadcasting your presence to the entire goddamn commonwealth. What the hell was that, anyway?”

“Angerfist,” he said, looking surprised that she didn’t know, like everyone would know a band with that name. “From a few years back.” He appraised me. “You gonna tell me if this is the guy?”

She sighed, already looking defeated. “This is the guy.”

“Hi,” I said, extending a hand. “I’m Jack.” The moment I said my name I wondered whether that broke a rule. Gwen didn’t say anything, so I guessed I hadn’t messed up.

The guy gave my hand a quick, sweaty squeeze. “I don’t know what you can call me,” he said, and looked at Gwen for guidance.

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