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THE NEXT MORNING was brutal. Whatever mission Meed was preparing me for, I clearly wasn’t ready, and she let me know it. Again and again, she made me come at her, full out. Front. Back. Side. And every time, she put me on the floor. Over and over, she drilled me on the right way to knock away a gun and leave the guy with a shattered wrist. She showed me the death points on the back of the neck, the belly, the chest.
I learned that the clavicle is an easy bone to break and that it takes about 130 pounds of force to crack somebody’s jaw.
What was strange was how normal it was all starting to feel. I’d spent my whole life studying people—their cultures, traditions, religions. Now I was learning how to maim them. And I was okay with it. Meed had done something to change my head, not just my body. I didn’t know who I was anymore, or what I was turning into.
After an hour, Meed let me stop to catch my breath. I was aching all over and dripping with sweat. I saw her reach into a plastic bin and pull out a large brown paper sack. It was leaking a watery red fluid. When the bag dropped away, I rocked back. She was holding up a huge severed pig’s head, with a long pink snout and its mouth set in a sickly grin. She jammed the head down on top of a metal stand so the pig was looking right at me. Meed shoved me into position in front of the gross, dripping head.
“Set your hands for a punch,” she said, “then rip out the left eye.”
What the hell?? This was a whole new level of insanity. The smell of the pig head was bad enough—sharp and rancid. The thought of touching it made my stomach turn.
Meed pointed to the outside corner of the pig’s eye, which looked disturbingly human. “Right here,” she said. “Jam your thumb in hard and hook it.”
“You’ve done this?” I asked, raising my hands to the ready position.
“Wrong question,” she replied. “Do it. Hard and fast.”
I took a few quick breaths to psych myself up. I re-ran my mental movie of the night before, with a gun barrel pointed at my head. I let out a loud shout. Then I did it. I stabbed my right thumb into the outside edge of the pig’s left eye and drove it behind the rear curve of the eyeball. I crooked my thumb and jerked it forward. The eyeball jutted out of its socket like a soft marble, still attached by nerves and small muscles, but now staring wildly to the side.
I gagged and turned away, shaking sticky pink goo off my fingers. I wanted to wash my hands. I wanted to take a shower. I wanted to vomit. I waited for Meed to say something. Like “good job.” Or “poke out the other one.” But when I looked over, her back was turned. She was suddenly more interested in something on the TV screen overhead.
The TV was tuned to a local Chicago station. A young female reporter with bobbed hair was doing a remote from a downtown street. At the bottom of the screen was a crawl that read, “AFRICAN PEACEMAKER WILL SPEAK IN CHICAGO TODAY.” Behind the reporter was a temporary speaking platform with some of the scaffolding still showing. She was already talking when Meed turned up the volume.
… and if there is any hope of bringing peace to the warring factions in the splinter nation of Gudugwi, it lies with former Ghanaian minister Abrafo Asare. If he succeeds in his mission, a number of African warlords and arms dealers are expected to be brought before the International Court of Justice in The Hague. Which, in some dark quarters, makes Abrafo Asare a very unpopular man. Asare will speak to human rights activists and supporters here in Chicago this afternoon before heading to the United Nations in New York. City Hall will be closed, and expect street closures in that area, because security will be tight. This is Sinola Byne, Channel 7, Eyewitness News, Chicago.
Without a word, Meed turned and headed for her room behind the kitchen. Apparently, the lesson in eye-gouging was over. It wasn’t unusual for Meed to disappear into her private space with no explanation—in the middle of a meal, in the middle of a workout, in the middle of a sentence. I was used to it by now. When she closed the door behind her, I looked back up at the TV. I was staring at a commercial for Jimmy Dean breakfast sausage.
Just me and the dead stinking pig.
CHAPTER 27
BY THE TIME the commercial break was over, Meed was out of her room and moving with purpose through the kitchen. She had quick-changed out of her workout gear into street clothes—skinny jeans, a sweater, and a burgundy leather jacket. Her hair was tucked under a floppy beret. She looked like she was heading for a brunch date.
“I’ll be out for a while,” she said.
Out? This was a first. She had never left me alone in the open part of the loft.
Was it possible she trusted me enough to let me roam the whole space on my own?
“Come here,” she said. She led me to the weight bench and sat me down. I thought maybe she was about to explain where she was going or what kind of workout she expected me to do while she was gone. Instead, she pulled a length of heavy chain from the floor and wrapped it around my chest in three tight loops, trapping my arms above the elbows. She wrapped the other end around the base of the weight machine. So much for trust.
“What are youdoing??” I asked. “If you think I’m a flight risk, just stick me back in my cell!”
“Too easy,” she said. “I need to expand your horizons.”
She reached into the tool drawer and pulled out a padlock with a long shackle. She hooked it through a few links of the chain across my chest and clicked it shut. I was now bound to the Precor trainer, which was loaded with about 400 pounds of weights. My arms were bound tight, with my forearms wriggling out underneath. But she wasn’t done yet.
She reached into the drawer again and pulled out a small beige rectangle. Five months ago, I would have thought it was modeling clay. Now I knew better. It was C-4 explosive.
“Jesus!” I said, struggling against the chains.
“Praying won’t help,” Meed replied.
She jammed a fuse into one side of the rectangle and then dropped it down the back of my gym shorts. I could feel the cool brick against my lower spine. I squirmed and shouted, “Why are you doing this??” She pretended not to hear me. The rest of the fuse was in a thick coil. Meed unwound it quickly as she backed across the living room area to the far wall of the loft.
“What the hell are youthinking??” I yelled. She pulled a lighter out of her pocket and touched off the fuse. It lit up like a sparkler as she dropped it onto the hardwood floor. I bounced up and down on the bench, trying to jar the chains loose, but it wasn’t working.
“Is this a joke?” I asked. She was heading for the elevator.
