A Man Named Doll by Jonathan Ames (rocket ebook reader .txt) 📕

I was under a thin blanket and a bedpan was between my legs. I was in a paper hospital gown and an IV drip was attached to my right arm. My left arm, where I had been cut, was freshly bandaged, and out of the corner of my eye, I could see a new bandage on my face.

Then I remembered everything, like an avalanche of reason, and I yanked my wrists to no avail in the handcuffs and screamed out: “Monica!”

My dry voice came out cracked and weak, and the response was silence.

I didn’t know where I was, but I wasn’t in a hospital, of that I was certain. I craned my neck as much as I could, with my arms secured to the railings, and I could see that I was in a large semidarkened room with a Spanish-tile floor, an old-style stucco ceiling with wooden beams, and a thick wooden door.

Then, twisting my neck, I was able to see that behind me a shade was pulled three-quarters of the way down the room’s one window, letting in sunlight along its edge, like yellow fire.

Which meant it was no longer Friday. When they had come to my house, it was dark out.

In front of me, on the other side of the room, there were door-length white-painted shutters that looked like closet doors, and then there was another door, which was open a crack and seemed to lead to a small bathroom. Flush against the wall to my right, in the shadows, was a metal table with medical supplies on it, but there wasn’t any other furniture.

Then I tested all the metal cuffs.

I was no Houdini.

I was thirsty and my lips were dry and coated in film. I called out again: “Monica!”

I was hoping she was somewhere nearby and would let me know, but I heard nothing. The only sound was a strong wind hitting the window.

My face was itchy, but there was no pain.

I looked at the IV bag hooked to my arm. They had me on something. Maybe a sedative. There were two other bags on the metal stand, but they were not attached to the port in my arm. What were they? Food? Water? How long had I been like this? And where was I? I was in a house, probably Spanish-style, based on the tile, but where?

Then the wind rattled the window some more and I knew where I was: Malibu. On top of that ledge, where Maurais had gone, the wind would be strong off the ocean. That’s where Madvig had brought me. To his house on Encinal Canyon Road. But why? What were they doing? And where was Monica?

I tried to slide my wrists out of the cuffs, but it was no use.

I figured they had kept me alive because they wanted to know if I had told anyone that they had killed Lou Shelton and were on the dark web offering black-market surgeries.

One thing they could be pretty certain of was that I hadn’t been honest with the cops, because no cops had gone up to Belden Drive. Madvig and Dodgers Hat must have gone back to the house at some point, saw it was safe, and cleared out the bodies, which meant two things: they knew I had killed the second blonde, Madvig’s son Paul, and that I hadn’t talked to the police.

But I could have told someone else, and that they would want to know.

Which meant that Rick Alvarez was in danger. He was the only person I had spoken to who could make any link to Madvig. Rick didn’t know why I was interested in the doctor, but he knew enough. Enough to get himself killed, and I was cuffed to a bed and they’d be able to get anything out of me they wanted. I didn’t kid myself about how brave I might be. I’d give Rick up no matter how hard I might fight, but if I could hold out a little while…he was taking off for Costa Rica today and maybe he’d be all right…

But they had Monica, if she was even still alive, and in frustration, I yanked on my wrists and ankles. I wanted a miracle of strength that would never come, and I raged in the bed, fighting the cuffs like a child throwing a tantrum.

Then I tried furiously to wiggle my right hand out. Wasn’t there a way to dislocate the thumb and get free like that? But I knew from being a cop that this was an urban myth. Still, I tried. Maybe it wasn’t a myth.

So I yanked my wrist toward myself, trying to put pressure on the thumb joint, and I fantasized that if I got my hand out, I’d find a pin or a piece of metal and free my other hand and then my ankles…

But all I did was rub a bunch of skin off.

Then I closed my eyes and stopped trying and my self-hate burned like acid.

I had been bitched from the moment I was born. I had brought ruin on everyone and everything I had ever touched. Now Alvarez was going to die, and Monica had to already be dead. They had to have killed her. She was a loose thread, a witness. I was only alive because they needed to know if I had spoken to anyone.

I pulled on all my cuffs again, throwing another tantrum. Please, God, give me a miracle, I thought, and just then, Madvig, his son, and Dodgers Hat, who was no longer wearing a Dodgers hat, came into the room. Madvig had on a white doctor’s jacket over a shirt and tie; Dodgers Hat was wearing blue nurse’s scrubs; and the son was in jeans and a thin leather jacket.

Madvig flipped a switch near the door, turning the ceiling light on, and said, full of cheer: “Good morning, Mr. Doll.”

2.

I didn’t return his greeting, and the