Truer than Fiction

The stretch reached from my toes to the top of my neck and I groaned as I reached for a pillow to dampen the noises so rudely interrupting my nap. My fingers scanned the space beside me searching for the coolness of the white linen pillowcase. Instead, they brushed an upright backing of what felt like worn leather and coarse stitching.

“Gotya!” a man’s voice yelled before a loud thump caused glasses to rattle. My eyes flew open, though, I didn’t dare move my body again. I tried to scan the room but from where I lay, there was nothing to see except the confirmation that my fingers had in fact found worn leather. The yellow of age peaked from behind worn medium brown patches and matched the thick stitching that at one time, no doubt, boasted bright white. Directly above me, gold trim outlined a dark wood ceiling holding onto a worn, brass pendant that swayed slightly.

“Ya caint do that, man,” it was a different voice than the holler from moments before, “Ya caint make rummy if ya don’t have a full run.” The words dripped slowly, barely understandable until the whole sentence was said.

“Ya can, I got tree cards on dis side, and tree on dat side. I don’t need da sevan.”  The first man’s voice was deep and, though his words seemed clearer, they ran together as one, long word. I agreed, he only needed short runs of three. If he had the four five and six and the eight, nine, and ten, his play was legal.

The conditions of the strange man’s victory, though, were far from where my thoughts needed to be. I could feel the room moving, a slight tug from left to right as it seemed to balance while in motion. Convinced that the seat back behind me would provide enough cover, I slowly turned my body so that my feet touched the exterior wall, and I could peer out past the seat backing.

A train. I was on a train, and, from what I could see, it was far from the modern plastic tables and cloth, stale seats. There were three small tables at the back of the cart, each set for a meal. Thick glasses sat right side up for stability. Small salad plates received their support from the large dinner plates between them and white doily placemats. Utensils were placed three deep on either side of the place setting, and the wood of the chairs matched the shiny, cherry wood of the tables.

A small bar sat further back in the corner, spirits lined neatly on shelves placed in front of a mirror. Two stools with black leather seats were tucked neatly under the overhang of a granite counter, and more deep wood shelving lined either side of the entire set up. Shelves for wine and glasses, no doubt.

Three men sat at a table in the corner opposite the bar. They’d quieted down significantly as they waited for a new hand of cards dealt. The man on the left wore a cap and what looked like a football jersey, an unlit cigarette poked out from the black beard that covered his face. A matching set of thick black eyebrows rose and fell back into place each time he glanced at a new card sent his way.

The man beside him grinned from big ear to big ear. He was missing a top and bottom tooth, one from each side of his mouth, and the only evidence that he’d ever had hair were two thin patches of curly frizz above those large ears and just in the middle of his head. His eyes were wild with excitement, and I wondered if he’d been the one to win the last hand.

“Would you like to join us?” a deep, controlled voice spoke over the rattles of the train car. Though the third man had his back to me, his voice carried down the aisle as if he’d been standing directly in front of me. He wore glasses, the tips of the white earpieces contrasted against his dark, brown skin. Thick hair was cut short and ended in a harsh line just above his neck. His shoulders were broad, about twice the size of the little man beside him, so when he tilted his chair back in expectation of a response, I wondered if the puny wooden legs would support him. “Do you not speak?”

He turned his head to the side, the swinging light of the pendant above him defined a statuesque profile. The profile of a dangerous, hard man. I squeezed my eyes shut and used my hands to push myself back into the seat, childishly believing that if I couldn’t see them, they couldn’t see me.

Moments passed, the train’s wheels on the track swoosh-clacking and the metal from the overhead lighting rattling were the only sounds in the car. Then, I heard wood chair legs screech across the floor. One chair. Two chairs.

Three chairs.

“Sit up.” The booming voice from the statue of a man commanded. I hurriedly pushed myself up and pressed my back into the cushion of the seat. My hands grabbed the bottom of the seat. I felt their stares and forced myself to open my eyes. “Miranda Banks.”

That he knew my name was neither a comfort nor a surprise. In the minutes since finding myself in this situation, I’d established that someone had to have put me on this seat. Whoever it was had to have prepared for me to wake up since they’d not bothered to kill me. “I don’t have a ticket.” Blood rushed to my cheeks and I regretted every word even before three humorless chuckles filled the air.

“In dat case, sha, I guess ya gotta git off,” the heavy, bearded one said; the skinny bald one nodded fervently in agreement.

“Won’t someone care to check for tickets? They’ll know you’ve taken me.”

The man with the shades pulled his lips into a crooked grin, the dimple on his left cheek softening his hard face. “No body’s checking tickets on this train, Miranda.”

He drew my name into more syllables than it was worth. The car began to feel smaller with every breath I took, the more I allowed myself to realize of this situation, the smaller my surroundings became. Breathing deep, I looked for an escape option, but with three stranger guarding me, even if I were able to get to the front of the cart without incident, and even if I survived the jump from the moving train, I had no idea where I was. If we were moving south, the swamp would eat me alive before I could find my way to civilization. If we were moving north, I knew the woods could be equally unforgiving. Either way, these six eyes on me let me know there would be no making it to the front door of the cart.

The bald man and bearded man took the seat facing me.

“Can you—“ I liked my lips, suddenly dry, “can you at least tell me why I’m here.”

“Don’t cha wanna know how we gotcha heyah?” The bald one smiled again, his wormy eyes wide with pride.

“Maybe, but right now, I want to know why I’m here.” I looked toward the man with the shades; he hadn’t moved since leaning against the seat on across the aisle from mine. “Please.”

The plea pulled a twitch from his jaw. After a long silence, he reached into his back pocket. I startled at the movement. I’d assumed I’d be dead if that was what they wanted, but maybe these men did want me dead. Who knows why, but maybe they liked their victims alive and awake. I squinted as he pulled his arm from behind his back holding—a book?

It was rolled and fit into his palm. I cringed at the thought of rolling a book like that, though, I knew it was something he did to allow the work to fit in his back pocket. “You don’t strike me as a reader,” I offered boldly, “I mean, it’s great that you do—“

He tossed the book onto the seat beside me cutting off my senseless babble. The cover was perfectly familiar, the title in a font I knew well. I’d spent the last few months working my way through each page, hours and hours selecting the perfect cover. In a last minute decision, I changed the cover completely. The photo I’d found of the wet, Louisiana land was too perfect. It was everything my novel needed to be perfect. The white bold font announced the title of the work that had consumed my life for the last ten years.

“Are you a fan?”

The fat one’s eyebrows raised in curiosity, but it was the wormy one who spoke first. “It’s not my usual read, ya know, but I liked it good.” His smile faded, “But I wish ya woulda wrote me better looking like the others.”

I stared at him in wonder. “I’m sorry, I’m not sure what that means.”

“Where’d you get your information, Miranda.”

There was that long version of my name again, from the statue across the aisle. “Again,” I said, “I really do not know what either of you mean.”

  “I like her not telling,” the fat one responded. He knocked his knee against mine; the contact unwanted and purposeful, “Sumtime he lets us help git da information out.” His eyes widened and he arched an eyebrow. My skin crawled.

“I’ll tell you anything you want—“ though I’d meant to sound strong and sure of myself, the words formed in a whisper. I cleared my throat, “I just need to know what you want.”

I forced myself to look away from the bearded one who’d scooted closer in his seat in my direction. I looked towards the statue, again. His calm and quiet might have signaled danger, he was certainly the type of man who could kill someone, or something, with his bare hands. Instead, he might have been the reason I didn’t feel as scared as I should have, a certain familiarity assured me he was safer than he appeared. I asked several more times, in different ways, where we were going and why did they have me.

The statue rocked his head from left to right, slowly stretching his neck to rid himself of his thoughts. In no answer to my question, he introduced me to Keagan Lavine, the skinny, mostly bald wormy man, and John Chevalier, the dark haired bearded man who now sat even closer to me. “I’m Sam,” he nodded, “Sam Jones.”

In any normal circumstance, learning the names of my captors should have given me peace of mind. If I were able to escape, I could run to the police and tell them everything from physical description to first and last names. If I survived the jump, the swamp, the woods and all—I could help bring these men to justice.

Though, under these circumstances I realized how little help their names would be to my case. The knot in my stomach loosened and I laughed at his joke, “Sure,” I said through breaths, “and you’re on a mission for Rousseau—the big bad mafia boss.”

Sam’s face remained still, no indication of a smile or jest and Keagan and John chuckled, one repeating the word mafia as if it were a punchline.

“You’re pretending to be characters of my book?” So, they were fans. “Where’s Rousseau then? Is he the captain of this fine piece of transportation?” I waved my arms around the cart and in doing so, saw for a second time the fully stocked bar behind us. Bravely, I stood and worked my way out of my seat, passed by Sam, and walked toward the bar.

I rarely drank, but it seemed like the best way to fully cope with the silliness around me. I’d been kidnapped by three men who’d read my book and now wanted to pretend to be my characters. “Is this an open bar, or will Rousseau send me a bill?” I laughed again and brought my hands together to steady one another. What good was kidnapping me for their game?

Both Keagan and John stood from their seats, but Sam silently commanded they remain seated and tossed them a small box. Their frustration evident, they took their seats again. A lighter flicked once, then again, and two thin lines of smoke rose above the back of the seat.

Sam stalked toward the bar. He moved one of the stools to stand in its place. “It’s open, drink all you want. It might help with the pain later if we don’t get some answers.”

“Rousseau is fictional.” The man claiming to share a name with my book character watched me. “He was a pretend killer, hard and soulless.” I found a bottle I liked and popped the top. I poured the brown liquid carefully since the cart teetered back and forth as it moved.

“You know that’s not true,” his mouth lifted in an arrogant grin, “you wrote him perfectly. Down to his past, his heartache.” He watched me wince from the whisky burning my throat. “His crimes.”

William Rousseau had one of the harshest pasts of any character in my book. Orphaned as a child, he grew up at the mercy of the group of hard men run by his uncle. He was raised believing every choice he made was the wrong one, punished regardless of outcome. He was starved to guarantee loyalty, abused to guarantee no sense of self worth. At twenty-three, Rousseau was forced to watch several of his uncle’s men torture and murder the woman he intended to marry, all promising his witness would make him a better man. At twenty-five, his uncle was assassinated. After a coup, the uncle’s only son ended up dead, placing Rousseau in the boss’s seat. Granted freedom to execute his revenge, each man who’d done him wrong paid with their lives. My novel only described one of the sordid revenge crimes, and even as the author of such details, I was shaken.

“It’s impossible.” I finished off my glass. “I don’t know you, I don’t know him.”

“I find that funny,” Sam said as he considered the stool next to him. “So does Rousseau. It’s particularly interesting that you chose to write his mistress’s story. How she died.” He laughed coldly, “He finds it interesting that you knew who killed her and how.”

I put the glass on the bar and brought my fingers to rub my temples, “You think that really happened?”

“I know that really happened.”

“And Rousseau is real?”

“You’ll find that out soon enough,” he looked at his watch, “I’d say about three hours.”

I set the bottle of whiskey aside and opted for another cup of soda water instead. If William Rousseau was a real person, then I knew him better than he wanted to believe I did. Sure, I knew his story. I’d gone so far as put it on paper and offered it to the world to know his story, too.

It was hard to believe that Sam Jones stood in front of me. A character I only imagined stood in the flesh. Though the man in my story did not look exactly like the Sam Jones standing in front of me, his height and build were the same. The man in my book had a dimple on the wrong cheek, but it served the same gentling purpose.

The sound of the train moving along the tracks filled the silence and Keagan and John had not moved from their spots. Every so often the smoke trails would die out then, as if on automatic, a lighter would clank and a new trail would climb into the air again. I’d written both of them similarly. Coarse and uneducated. The John from my book would have never worn a baseball hat and jersey, but his black hair, big nose, and well kept beard matched both fiction and reality. In my story he was about four inches taller, and instead of heavy-set, he was muscular. Keagan was spot on, except in my story his character has all of his curly hair, not just patches.

I giggled remembering that he wished I’d have written him better looking. I guess, had I known, I could have done him that small favor. Even bald, the real Keagan was better looking than the sidekick in the story, he at least had most of his teeth. “Poor Keagan,” I said under my breath. I took a sip of water to muffle another laugh.

“You really didn’t do him any favors,” Sam’s dimple appeared and disappeared as quickly as his smile.

“And Rousseau?” I looked into my glass as I asked. I knew Sam and the boss shared a special relationship. I hoped I missed the mark when I wrote Rousseau, I hoped that he was a nice, ugly man.

“Spot on.” My hopes were crushed, and I knew that in a few hours, I’d be facing one of the meanest men alive. I wondered if his physical traits in the book would be as ‘spot on’ as his personality. I wondered if he would be as terrible as his fictional doppelgänger.

“I don’t have any inform—“

“Despite what you might believe, we are not stupid.”

“I can prove it, I have notebooks and timelines and plot twists—I have everything written down. You can see my changes, improvements, character analysis—you can see it all.”

“Someone gave you information.”

I stared at the man. “You know I’m telling you the truth. You know this is all absolutely absurd. The idea that I imagined something that actually happened. Ab-surd.”

“The police are onto every part of Rousseau’s business because of you. Their once circumstantial evidence has now all been tied together with motive and common practices. We’re at a safe house in—“ Sam caught himself before revealing our destination, “We’re on the run, Miss Banks, all thanks to you.”

He stood, ending the conversation and walked over to the others still sitting and smoking. I briefly wondered where they hid all of their cigarettes, if they continued at this rate they’d blow through at least three packs before we arrived. Sam poached a cigarette and lit it, then walked back to have a seat at one of the tables set for dinner. After finding a comfortable position, he pushed the chair across from him out with the bottom of his foot. “It’s a long ride standing.”

I refilled my club soda and grabbed a bottle of water from the small fridge beneath the bar. Setting the bottle of water in front of Sam, I sat in the seat he’d offered. Unsure of whether or not I wanted to know how things would unfold, I decided to ask if I’d be killed if I didn’t provide information. I wanted to ask Sam if I should make up information in order to escape death, maybe escape the torture John suggested if I came up with a lie about where I’d received the details.

Based on my current situation, making up a story of how I got the information would only haunt me later—or worse, haunt some unsuspecting real-life version of a character I made up. Could I risk this situation happening twice? If my fiction found favor with reality again, would I be okay risking someone else’s life to save mine?

“Will you let him hurt me?” I kept my eyes on my water, hoping that asking in this way—placing my safety in Sam’s hands—would connect us on some level. Even if he did not want a connection. I didn’t want to be on this train, I didn’t want to be on my way to an interrogation I had no way of avoiding.

“Rousseau is his own person.”

I knew that better than he realized. “I can go to the police, and let them know my book is fiction. There’s no truth to my words.”

“It’s too late for that.” His sentences were short, I knew I’d gotten under his skin. I knew that connection I forced now existed for him, too. I had to make him see the truth, I had to make him believe me. Once I did that, he’d not let Rousseau kill me. Hurt me, maybe, but at least they’d let me live.

“I don’t know anyone, I don’t have a source, Sam.” I only looked at him once his name left my mouth. “I swear it, on whatever deity most holy to you, on whatever holy book you value most. I swear it.”

“It’s a hell of a coincidence, don’t you think?”

“I still don’t believe I am where I am. In what world does a person write a work of fiction that turns out to be real. Normally, there’s a little bit of knowledge, maybe even they participated in something their fiction was based on—I. Did. Not.” I took the last gulp of my water, “It took me ten years to piece together this novel. It consumed my life. I worked part time, lived in a crappy little apartment. I passed over romances, friendships. I let this thing consume me! For what? To die over it? I guess it only makes sense that I’d forgo living to produce my death.”

“You okay, boss?” Keagan stood and looked at us from their seats, his words surprisingly unhindered by a cigarette. I’d raised my voice and shown my anger, my weakness. Sam nodded to the other man and he returned to his seat.

My own words sank in, I’d never return to my life. “Does he make deals, like in the book?”

“What kind of deals?”

“What can I do?”

“Give us your informant, he might spare your life.”

This conversation was headed nowhere. Unlike this train, slowly chugga-chugging me towards my doom. “Let’s try something else,” I suggested, “Let’s pretend I’m telling the truth and there is no informant. There was no prior knowledge of these events when I wrote the book.”

Again, Sam rolled his head from shoulder to shoulder, then rolled his shoulders back. “Then you’ll be held responsible for the damage you’ve caused.”

“Then why not kill me now?”

“That’s not my mission.”

Of course. Rousseau’s men were militant about sticking to their missions. No matter the cost, there was no deviating from the exact command of their leader. Unfortunately, Rousseau planned for every outcome, every change of circumstance. His men were safer following his command than they’d be trying to complete the mission their own way. Sam, too, was genius. Rousseau offered him more freedom on missions to make decisions, but Sam usually stuck to the plan.

Accepting the situation as truth, I realized that I had inside information about these men. Particularly, about Sam and his boss. Before I could consider my options, the train’s breaks hissed. As we slowed, the dishes on the tables and in the cabinets rattled. My stomach sank to my knees as Sam, Keagan, and John stood and walked toward me. “You don’t have to carry me. I’ll walk with you.”

“Walk in front,” Sam instructed the men then took me by my elbow and helped me stand. “I’m going to tie your hands, but otherwise you’ll be able to walk on your own will. Unless you give me reason to change my mind.”

I let him tie my hands in front of me then guide me by my elbow off the train. We exited the train and stepped down into a dark tunnel. Pebbles crunched at my feet, and a few steps from the trains ladder, Sam guided me up a step and onto a side walk. Then, through a door in the concrete wall of the tunnel.

On the other side, a long hallway of photos and marble floor led us to an office where I was instructed to sit and wait. John and Keagan left grudgingly at Sam’s order, the two of us left alone.

I studied the wall-to-wall shelves of books and ornaments. Green plants poked out of white vases and worn out statuettes sat on top of worn out books. Some books faced spine-out, displaying literary titles, no doubt first editions. Others were turned pages out, the condition of the pages suggesting their position not just esthetic but beneficial to the books themselves. A large desk sat in the corner of the room, typical of what one might think a mafia king might sit behind. Dark, heavy oak. A red, plush leather chair peeked from behind, pulled out enough for someone to stand between it and the flat surface.

“Miranda Banks.” My name rolled smoothly across the room, “I couldn’t get my hands on you fast enough.”

I turned from the desk to the door to find him, the tall, dark and beautiful Rousseau. No detail of his features was spared in my novel, and here, in the flesh, he was as beautiful as my imagination allowed him to be. Dark eyes found their way around my body, a soft lick of his lips in appreciation. “You’ve caused me a lot of problems,” he purred, “but now that you’re here, I believe you might be worth all the trouble.”

I thought back to my story, trying to focus on the moments where Rousseau displayed his weakness. Since his father murdered his mother and left him to be reared by his horrid uncle, women held the key to tearing down his evils. Women who, particularly, fed his need for love, acceptance, and validation. All three things I could pretend.

“I can’t believe—“ I pretended to stutter, “I can’t believe someone can really look like you.”

Sam tensed at my side and I wondered if he knew my next move. Rousseau nodded in his direction, and as Sam began to untie my hands he asked, “Am I a dream of yours then, Miranda?”

“A dream, maybe, but I never thought I was writing a true person,” I reached out to touch him, slowly bringing my hand to his chest. I ran it down his stomach before pulling away, pretending disbelief that I’d touched him. I stepped closer to him, met his eyes.

Sam cleared his throat loudly. He knew my game, but I knew Rousseau. If the man was my character, I knew how to survive him and kept his gaze by licking my lips.

“Sir?” Sam begged, “Should I take her to interrogation?”

“Interrogation?” I asked, allowing panic to take over my features. “Why? What have I done?”

“You’re story, mon cheri,” he brushed his hand down the side of my face, “I’m a wanted man thanks to you.”

“I’m sure you were wanted way before me.” My tone reflected innuendo, but I continued, “I didn’t know any of this was real. I can’t believe—“ I let my hand find his chest again. “Please believe me.”

“And what good would that do me?” Rousseau lifted his hand to shoo Sam away before allowing it to land on my hip.

He was easy, too easy. I might never walk out of his grip, never return to my life as I knew it, but I wasn’t going to die. I’d find a way to pretend to love this man, give him the woman he’d always wanted. I’d make notes, make timelines, and keep track of every event. I’d sell my soul to this devil to survive. “I could be really good to you— sir.”

Rousseau grunted, then pushed me from his hold. “I’m sure,” he walked to the door and ushered Sam, John, and Keagan back into the room. “Just as I’m sure you’ll understand I cannot allow your actions to go unpunished. Sam, learn what you can.”

I felt the blood drain from my face as he approached, this time grabbing my hands and bringing them behind my back. “Nice try,” he whispered in my ear as he forcefully pushed me toward the exit.

“Rousseau, please!” I screamed, “I swear, I don’t know how this happened! I swear I’ll be good to you!” I pushed against the three men, turning to try to get back to the boss, but Sam threw me over his shoulder and held my legs in place. I looked up to see Rousseau staring. Grinning in my direction.

“When you’re sure she’s innocent, bring her to me.” He turned and walked to his desk, rolling the chair a bit before sitting and spreading his hands over the flat surface. I sank my face into Sam’s back and cried.

My own creation, I thought, my own imagination. I’d written and rewritten a story about a crime ring and their evil boss. I knew the interrogation that awaited me, and I knew the chances of coming out on the other end. Where my mind gave me everything I’d ever hoped for in a published, best-selling work; it doomed me to death as a one hit wonder.

Sam opened a door to a bright, white room and set me on a chair. Light shown from every angle, shadows were non-existent. Every movement echoed in the rooms emptiness. “Here’s home for the next week or so, Miranda. Let’s see if we can’t learn more about this novel of yours.”