HE TRIED TO STRETCH OUT, but his feet struck metal bars, and the space around him seemed to close in, as though even the air had walls. A throbbing pressure pulsed through his temples, and dizziness crawled along the back of his neck.
One hell of a headache... — he thought, trying to open his eyes and adapt to the compact darkness surrounding him.
The air carried a faint smell of rust, sweat, and cheap disinfectant. Little by little, the shadows began to take shape: a narrow table covered with papers and wires; an open notebook computer, its screen still glowing with a flickering bluish light; a half-open minibar with bottles inside; an old wooden cabinet, cracked along the edges, too far away to reach.
Will took a deep breath, trying to gather his thoughts. His heart pounded unevenly. Across the room, he noticed a man lying motionless on a couch several feet away.
Driven by confusion, Will raised his wrist before his eyes and managed to make out the watch face: it was a few minutes before three in the morning.
His brain began putting the pieces together.
Shit... — he muttered quietly. — I missed the show.
The memory struck him like lightning: he had been inside the car, searching through the glove compartment for the wounded man's wallet — and then everything had gone black.
I was kidnapped... — he concluded, feeling his breathing quicken. — What the hell does this bastard want with me?
His mind spiraled. He had read stories like this before: young men disappearing, psychopaths keeping hostages, bodies found in ditches. His captor could be anything — a sexual maniac, a ritualistic killer, or simply someone hungry for revenge.
I need to stay calm... maybe he just wants to extort my father... — he tried to reason.
He examined what he assumed was his cell: a metal crate with an area of roughly two square meters. The ceiling was so low that, when he tried to straighten up, he felt the bars scrape against his hair.
No way I can stand up...
Lying down, he felt along the sides and grabbed two iron bars, pulling with all the strength in his arms, but they were solid, cold, bolted into plates that served as both ceiling and floor — the ground covered in thick rubber that muffled both sound and despair.
The door, reinforced with double hinges, had two numeric locks, each with four digits. Aside from himself, the space contained nothing: no tools, no shard of metal that could be used as a weapon. Only his ragged breathing and the cutting silence.
I'm screwed... — he thought, and for the first time, he felt despair brush against his throat.
— I'll give you a chance — the voice emerged from the darkness, slow and deep, coming from the couch.
Will jolted. The man stood up, switched on the light, and smiled. The glare revealed a pale face with sharp features, as though sculpted with a scalpel.
— Go ahead — Will reacted, trying to hide his panic.
— If you guess the numbers on the locks, you're free, you can leave. But if you fail... — LaVey paused, snapping his fingers — ...we're going to play a little game.
— You're insane — Will shot back, his throat dry. — That's like playing the lottery.
— Sometimes you're a lucky guy — the man replied, raising an eyebrow ironically.
— No hints? — the teenager pleaded, his voice trembling.
LaVey tilted his head, savoring the riddle.
— What was the greatest English band of all time?
— The Beatles — Will answered without hesitation.
— They were more famous than Jesus Christ — the kidnapper said, pacing slowly — but they weren't the best.
— Then you must like Led Zeppelin — Will guessed.
LaVey stopped and smiled.
— I'm beginning to like you, kid.
— Then let me out of here, please.
— Don't be weak — the man replied, picking up the remote control from the table. — You've already discovered the path. Maybe this song will inspire you.
A guitar riff cut through the silence.
"Celebration Day" filled the space, vibrating against the metal walls. Will's sweaty fingers began turning the dials on the first lock.
One... zero... two... five.
Month and day of the band's first performance at Cambridge University.
He heard a dry click and a liberating snap.
A timid smile formed on his face — the first obstacle overcome, since the debut show had taken place in 1968.
He entered that date into the second lock.
Nothing.
The silence felt heavier than a scream.
— You tricked me! — he cried in desperation.
LaVey burst into laughter.
— You just had to think a little harder, kid. The song playing right now was recorded in 1970. Try again.
Will adjusted the numbers, and the second click came immediately after — sharp, clean, definitive.
His heart nearly exploded as he shoved the cage door with force. For one brief moment, he believed he was free, but then the laughter returned — shrill and sarcastic.
— You still haven't learned that you can't trust strangers, kid — LaVey mocked, approaching him with eyes sparkling in sick delight.
— You son of a bitch, you lied to me! — Will shouted, his voice filled with terror and rage.
— What do you do in the band? — the man asked with meticulous calm.
— None of your business — Will replied through clenched teeth.
— Don't be so rude — LaVey warned. — So far, you've been a very well-treated guest. Unlike the little girl in the room next door. She had to be... sent back to her mother... in several installments.
Will froze. A chill ran down his spine.
He must be the London Ripper...
— What do you want from me? — he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
LaVey raised his arm, singing along to a verse of "Celebration Day," now playing for the third time.
— I'm so happy... gonna join the band...
— I'm the guitarist — Will murmured, feeling terror rise through his body like fever.
— See? I told you that you were a lucky guy. If you were the singer, I'd have to cut out your tongue. But... — he opened a slow, monstrous smile — ...I don't think your right hand will be missed that much.
— You're insane! — the teenager screamed, his voice breaking into a sob.
— I'll start with your pinky finger — the man said, walking toward the minibar.
He opened it and pulled out two ice-cold cans of beer, and as the metal hissed open, he added with macabre serenity:
— ...but don't blame me if your father doesn't understand the message.
The game was only beginning.