And suffering may perform another salutary function as well, by assuring us that we are still susceptible of feeling—for it is only those who have ceased to exist (or, as in the case of the unfortunate young Trinidadian, who have been reduced to a state of living death) that are incapable of experiencing pain.

Very gradually, I awakened to a powerful, insistent throbbing deep within my head. But—in spite of the almost sickening nature of this sensation—I experienced it with a rush of gratitude and relief; for its very intensity informed me that I was still among the living.

That knowledge, however, was all that I could claim, for in every other respect my conceptions were in a state of the greatest indistinctness and confusion. By slow degrees, however, my mental faculties regained their normal acuity and my present situation became clearer.

I was lying prone on the ground, my hands tightly secured behind my back, my head still swathed by the burlap sack, into which an aperture had been torn around the area of my mouth to permit respiration. My vision was, of course, entirely obscured, while my hearing—though not wholly obstructed—was greatly muffled by the fabric. Even so, I was able to deduce—by the feel of grass and stones and twigs beneath my body—that I had somehow been transported from the city to the countryside.

For many moments, I lay absolutely motionless while attempting to ascertain the precise nature of my predicament. I could hear, even through the barrier of the burlap sack, a strange, methodical thudding sound, as though someone were digging in the ground nearby. All at once, this shovelling noise ceased and an exceedingly gruff male voice exclaimed:

“Shit, I ain’t digging another inch.”

In response to this coarse and querulous pronouncement, a second male voice—belonging, as I immediately recognized, to my nemesis, Hans Neuendorf—harshly inquired: “How deep’s the damn hole?”

“Three feet down. Maybe four,” replied the first speaker.

“A mite shallow for a grave,” growled Neuendorf. “But I suppose it’ll do for the scrawny little bastard.”

The reason for my abduction was now perfectly—if not hair-raisingly—plain. I was to be cruelly murdered, then buried in an unmarked grave far out in the countryside, where the grisly evidence of the crime would remain forever undetected! The reader may easily imagine my reaction to this dire, this dastardly plan. My nerves—already strained to the breaking point—became thoroughly unstrung, and a groan of the uttermost horror escaped from my trembling lips.

“Well, lookee here .” This observation was uttered by yet another person, in a voice every bit as menacing as—if somewhat less guttural than—the others. It was now alarmingly evident that I had fallen into the clutches of Neuendorf and at least two of his barbarous henchmen.