With his free hand, he pressed the photographs across the table in front of him and felt a chill pass down his spine. They were all there: lovely little Kara, his first great grand child, all seven of his grand children, his wife Lillian surrounded by their three daughters. Victor went slowly, from one picture to the next, caressing a cheek here or touching a shoulder there, and with each little contact, feeling a terrible fear in his soul that drew the very life from him. Finally, when he had seen them all, assessed every small detail of each person and reviewed a host of remembrances, he sat back and collected himself.

As he was about to speak he felt that little disquietude in his throat that forewarned of a falter in the voice that would never do. He put his hand to his mouth and coughed slightly, then tested his vocal chords with a small grunt of contempt that satisfied him. Then he spoke. "I am underwhelmed. You have gone to considerable effort cataloguing my family. For what reason?"

From the shadows came, "What do you think?"

Victor nodded. "The superficial ones are that you wish to display how close to them you can get and to make me afraid, but what is the real reason? How long was I unconscious? Why am I here? What is this all about? What is the bedrock issue?"

There was no reply, no sound and Victor just sat there, disquieted by his helplessness.

For several minutes he said nothing, but let his eyes scan the photographs, hoping to learn something of the photographer from them. He saw that Kara was smiling broadly, posing for her picture as only a four-year-old can. His daughter Lisa was laughing in one of the photos as though sharing a bit of great humor with a close friend. Who could do this, he wondered? And why would they?

"Are you on some sort of mission?" Victor asked.

Again, there was nothing but silence and somehow there was a harshness in that quiet that he seemed to sense, as though some new evil had been introduced into the room, merely by his question. This puzzled Victor too for it was only he who had spoken and in doing so had somehow opened the door for that new formless entity. He knew that, very possibly, this could be a much belated mission, and one of vengeance. He chose another tack.

"Well, if you do not wish to chat, then I suppose we must wait until you do." He raised his shackled wrist as high as it would go and said, "It would seem I have little other choice."

The silence that followed was proof enough that this new approach stood him no better and Victor’s mind raced. He wished for just a moment that he was younger, not for the renewal of physical prowess that would come with such an alteration, but to regain the mental dexterity he once enjoyed. He had known for some time that the years had taken their toll on his intellect and reckoning and it was this that he wished for. Victor believed that a younger edition of himself could have found a way through this puzzle.

"I like chatting, Willie. What shall we chat about?"

Victor froze like a man who has just been struck with a lethal, but not instantly fatal, bullet. Willie! He had not been ‘Willie’ for fifty-five years. Nowhere that he knew of was there anyone who could place that name upon him, and yet, here it was. The name enveloped him like a monster whose terrible teeth were constructed of all the reasons he had jettisoned the name so long ago.

For a moment he considered the obvious; feigning ignorance and protesting association with that name. Just as quickly, he knew the futility of such an attempt. Whoever he was dealing with had marshaled his facts and such protests would only serve to make him look foolish and perhaps old. Now he knew that somehow a part of his past had come to visit. Victor lowered his eyes in thought.

Years ago he had anticipated this moment and made his plans. This should serve him well now, he believed. He would not have to think, only recall, and that he could yet do well. Still, it was all treacherous ground, plentiful with landmines and pitfalls. A slip would certainly lead to his ruin and his captor’s refusal to give even the slightest hint of what was driving him created a landscape without markers. Victor now sought for the line of least exposure, hoping against hope that he could glean a hint of what this was all about. He chose a bit of belligerence.

"So you know my Christian name. I am unimpressed." Now he would use silence as his tool, as his weapon of defense. He sat there staring squarely into a dark space between two of the four bright lamps that faced him.

Soon, this measure produced results, but hardly what Victor had hoped for. "Willie, I know all that there is to know about you. I paid well to learn it."

Victor nodded. Now he understood. "So, you have come to kill me."

This silence was less threatening and at the same time, more imposing. Again, an idea had been voiced and a new, fiercer lion had been unleashed. Victor was being swallowed by his own words, as though this was precisely his captor’s goal from the outset.

"Well, if you are going to kill me, get it done and over, like a man," Victor said at last. He was rewarded with a small chuckle from behind the blinding lights. Victor felt completely disquieted.

At last the voice asked, "Why should anyone want to kill you, Willie? I am interested in your reasoning."

"You can have no reason for killing me," Victor said firmly.

"How did you decide that?" the voice asked.

Again, Victor cursed himself for having replied at all. This disembodied speaker was more clever than he’d believed. He had just elected to say not a single word more when there was a small metallic click and abruptly a stiletto shot out of the shadows and pierced his suit, his shirt, his undershirt and barely pricked his pectoral muscle. The wound was barely a scratch and hardly life threatening, but it drove home several points: he was not in control, there was nothing he could do, and his captor knew much about creating anguish. Victor felt great fear. Still, he was wise enough to consciously hide his fear behind a proper response. Victor screamed intentionally. It was not a pain so great or even a real pain at all. He could have easily suppressed and swallowed it, but Victor knew that most men, particularly of his age, would scream, and so he did.

After several seconds of feigned anguish, the voice said, "Oh, cut it out, Willie. I know you. I know all about you, so let’s dismiss charades here, okay?"

Victor could not so easily dismiss ‘a good idea’ and persisted in his act. He was rewarded by a swooping slap to the side of his face from out of the darkness that both addled and straightened his mind. He was dealing with a villain equal.

"All right. You have made your point," Victor replied, shaking his head to clear his senses. "But if you expect me to play the game, you must share the rules."

Again, there was the silence; the accusative, dominating silence that mocked his efforts and stripped him of dignity. It told him that his sham had failed, that he was not a player in the game, just a card in some deck that was firmly in some other dealer’s hands. It was time to understand that dealer.

"What do you want?" Victor yelled. It was a gauged utterance and Victor knew that managing to direct his reactions was allowing him the slimmest lever of control.

"I want to listen," the voice replied.

The tone this time was calm, almost soothing and the inflections could easily have convinced Victor that this person was capable of genuine kindness. Victor was well aware of this tactic. He had used it many times during his life for his own benefit and many more times because it was part of what he once was required to do. Long ago it had been his duty to use deception such as this. Victor knew that those long past days were the reason he was now shackled to a chair in this dark place.