The drive took twenty-eight hours and seventeen minutes—a straight shot on the Interstates from NYC to Texas, the trip broken only by fill-ups and black coffee whenever the gas gauge read '1/4,' and rest area pit stops using the state-provided family restrooms. Root pretended to be the caring daughter helping her infirm dad use the facilities while Finch tried to ignore the forced intimacy and the Heizer Double Tap with its aim that never shifted from his midsection.
The hours of driving gave Finch plenty of time to imagine what might be awaiting him at the end of the trip. Some form of coercion, no doubt; when Root said they had so much to talk about, Finch knew the topic had to be the Machine. As the miles passed, he steeled himself to resist as long as he was able, to withold all information, to keep his method of access from her even if it meant death itself.
Never, in all those hours of driving and thinking, did Finch imagine the stunningly vicious reality of Root's plan for him. He expected that darkness would be part of his torment, but he never paired it with an overstuffed wingback chair nor a plate of peanut butter cookies and a glass of cold milk on a table next to him, its parquet surface protected by a tatted lace doily. He never pictured stacked boxes filled with long plastic racks nor did he imagine the rhythmic chink-chunk of the mechanical feeder of a slide projector, relentlessly feeding one image after another to the screen set up at the far end of the parlor.
"This is me at Aunt Irma's backyard pool."
Root's voice, smooth and silky, described the scene. She was perched on the seat of a matching wingback chair with the projector's advance button clutched in her hand.
"Uncle Dave set it up in time for Memorial Day every summer. I'm in the blue bathing suit and bathing cap, and that's my cousin Frank with the beach ball. His older brother Ted doing a handstand underwater. That's his feet sticking up by my mom. "
The projector advanced to the next slide.
"And this is Frank doing a handstand while Ted throws the beach ball at his mom."
The projector advanced to the next slide.
"And this is Uncle Dave pretending to be a shark and chasing us around the pool. We all thought he was so funny."
The projector advanced to the next slide.
"And this is me and Mom in the pool waving to Dad while he takes our picture."
Finch squirmed in his chair then he cleared his throat, hoping a question would not be taken amiss by his captor.
"How old are you in these slides?" he asked.
The peripheral light cast by the vents of the projector illuminated his captor's joy as she smiled at his show of interest.
"Oh, I'm almost five here. I think the next rack of slides has my birthday in it. We went to the park for a picnic."
Finch's hands tightened into impotent fists as he stared at the screen.
That was slide three hundred and forty-three… there must be thousands… I can't possibly sit through all of them and not crack under the strain….
"When I've shown you all our slides," Root told him, "I'll set up the Super 8 projector and we can watch the movies Dad took of our vacations. There's the Grand Canyon, and the Rocky Mountains, and Yosemite, and Yellowstone, and the Everglades, and Daytona Beach…."
His captor's litany of travel destinations continued as Finch choked back a sob.
Of all the ways I thought I might die… I never once considered being bored to death….
