Three A.M. (16 page)

“I never asked.” He pulled a bottle of pills from his pocket. It rattled as he lifted it to study the label. “Here. Maybe this isn’t what you wanted. I’m sorry.”

I took the bottle and looked down at it, not comprehending. “I’m sure they’re fine, man. No worries.” I pulled out a few bills—forty dollars or sixty, I knew both would do and didn’t care either way—and held them out to him. “Thanks like every time,” I said, smiling.

“Not this time.” He didn’t reach out for the money, cleared his throat, and looked down. “This time is different. No thanks to me, Thomas. I’m so sorry.” He rubbed his face with both hands, again muttering, “I have so many regrets, I don’t know how to stomach another. I’m so sorry.”

I lowered my hand slowly. “Salk…” He looked up and quickly reached out, placing a hand on my shoulder. He gripped me firmly for a moment, nodded, and then turned to go. As he pulled open the door, framed again by the softly glowing lights, he said over his shoulder, “Tom. You should do yourself a favor and don’t take those.”

He shut the door. I stood still as a statue. Then from the dancing mist came a series of sharp, mechanical clicks. From both sides of me. A low groan began: a deep bass hum growing ever louder and higher pitched. The air around me swirled more and more violently. The dollar bills dropped from my hand and drifted off in the breeze.

My heartbeat quickened. My knees buckled and my hands went cold. As the wind picked up and the hum turned into a howl, I realized I knew the sound: blowers. A loud, grating noise began, and suddenly the air around me was growing clear. I could almost make out a pair of blower fans up the way. They looked to be on the back of a truck bed. Shaking my head to snap out of my paralyzing trance, I turned to run.

Blinding lights burst on from down the alley. Silhouettes darted before them, and then the lights were so bright, I couldn’t see. The blowers raged in the small alley, and the air rushed around me, clearing and howling. I fell to my knees. Could barely see the ground. Voices through the swirling air and then a pair of shoes were before me. I was panting, disoriented—terrified.

Slowly, I leaned back to sit on my ankles, rubbing my eyes. Then I looked up past the pair of still shoes, past a dark blue suit to see his face. The man from Research. He looked neither angry nor satisfied. There was even a slight smile in his eyes. I knelt there and he looked down for a few seconds, and then carefully hitched up his slacks and lowered himself to my level.

“Very predictable,” he said quietly.

“What was?”

He shook his head a bit and then reached out, quickly but with a calm, steady hand, and stabbed a syringe into my left thigh. He pushed the plunger all the way down before I had time to react with so much as a grimace. I looked up at him. He drew out the needle and stood. Already I was growing faint. The gray crept back into my vision despite the blower fans, which were now fading to silence. I was vaguely aware that I was on my side, watching his legs recede. The lights grew dim and I felt, as my eyes closed, that maybe many hands were clutching at me. Maybe I was very alone.

8

My head pounded. I was sure that my eyes were open, but I could see nothing. I thought to get up out of bed and stumble into the bathroom for a handful of aspirin. I needed water. Then the couch and sleep and no thinking. There was throbbing at my temples and behind both eyes. The bed felt so hard. I coughed and the pain in my skull turned to agony and finally my eyelids peeled open.

I was not at home.

White walls. The room was maybe ten by fifteen with very high ceilings. I was lying on a concrete floor next to a simple cot. The sheets and blanket on the cot were in disarray, used recently. I was on my back, and that was all I could see of the room. Slowly, my brain pulsing, I rolled away from the wall with the cot and looked across the room.

Two men sat on chairs molded of concrete on either side of an iron door. They wore gray fatigues and caps and were clean shaven, and each had a pistol holstered and a long rod that looked like a cattle prod hanging from their belts. One straightened up as my eyes met his; the other, on the left, didn’t. He just stared at me.

My tongue, like a dry piece of leather, played across my chapped lips. I tried in vain to conjure up a bit of saliva. Finally, rasping and croaking, I slid up onto one elbow and said, “Hi, fellahs.”

The one on the right leaned over to his compatriot and whispered something. The other nodded and then they were both silent again.

“So…” I winced as I pulled myself up to sit Indian style, leaning back against the cot. “What’s um … what’s going on?” Nothing. I raised a finger and, hand trembling, pointed to the guy on the right. “You … chatty Cathy … what’s up with you?”

“Don’t talk to me,” he said.

“Okay, how about you?”

“Don’t talk to him either,” said the first one, leaning forward a bit on his stool. I hung my head and shook it from side to side. I guess I knew something like this was coming, but I had hoped it wouldn’t be so clinical. So official. Matching uniformed guards with evil-looking tools. I turned and, using my arms as much as my legs, hefted my aching body up onto the cot. I sat with my feet on the floor and my hands clasped together, looking at the two stoic faces of my new friends. I decided to keep pressing my luck. Whatever was coming was coming, and I wanted to know about it or at least accelerate it as much as possible.

“Guys, if we can’t talk, I don’t know how we’re going to get to know each other.” I forced a shit-eating grin.

The guy on the left, the more stoic one with features shaped by a life of bitterness, rose and took a few steps toward me. He brandished the pole in his hand. It was thin, with a little fork at the business end and a thick handle at the other. He flicked a switch, and little tendrils of blue electricity danced across the tines held toward me.

“Keep talking, asshole,” he said, his voice low and deadly serious.

“What should I talk about? I was hoping you jack offs would do the talking.…”

He took another step closer, raising the rod menacingly before me, and reached into one of the pockets of his trousers. He pulled out a syringe and removed its cap with his teeth.

“Would you rather a little wake-me-up”—he smiled, nodding toward the electrified rod—“or do you want to take another nap?”

“I’d really prefer a cigarette,” I said quietly, looking down. It occurred to me then for the first time that I was still wearing my jacket. I patted my chest pockets and found that I still had my lighter and smokes. Incredulously, I realized I still had Heller’s cassette and the pills too. My little knife was gone, though.

The guard stood there, feeling very tough, I’m sure. I slowly, deliberately drew out my pack of smokes and put a cigarette between my lips.

“Don’t light that,” the standing guard said. The other stood up behind him.

I thought about my options for a second, went with the one that made the most sense, given the less-than-ideal circumstances.

“Well, hey—” I smiled, flicking my lighter. “—fuck both of you.”

I lit the cigarette. Got one deep drag. Then the closer of the two was on me, that goddamn pole against my chest. I heard the crackle of electric pain before it even registered. Then every muscle twisted in on itself, and I screamed like a wounded animal, writhing in anguish on the floor.

I’d never experienced more displeasure in so short a time. I convulsed on the cement as they stood, shoulder to shoulder, grinning down at me. My cigarette sat on the ground between their boots. Rolling onto my stomach and then rising unsteadily onto my knees, I reached out and picked up the smoke between two fingers.

“This asshole doesn’t learn, does he?” The shock-happy guard flicked his pole to life again and very slowly began moving it toward me. Toward my face. I put the cigarette between my lips, rose up into a low crouch, and with everything I had, punched him square in the balls.

He crumpled like a wet tissue, howling and coughing as he fell. I grabbed the pole from where he’d dropped it and rose, waving it at the other guard, who stood looking nervously from his incapacitated comrade to me, hand on his holstered weapon. His other hand strayed toward the electric pole still clipped to his belt. I held the shock rod’s tip near his chin for a moment, and he froze. Then I sat roughly down on the cot, threw the prod away, and smoked while staring up at him. The man on the floor got to his knees. He stared at me with hatred in his eyes, his face red and drenched with sweat from the pain in his crotch.

“You motherfucker…,” he growled between clenched teeth. He drew his pistol and leveled it at my chest.

“Easy guy…,” I said quietly.

“Rick, hand me your shocker,” he said over his shoulder. The other guard stepped forward to oblige him. “Enjoy that drag.” The kneeling guard smiled sadistically, his lips curling back to reveal mossy, piano key teeth. Then the prod was alive, and it was on my chest, my legs. I was blinded by the pain. The bastard went for my balls with it. My neck. I was racked by spasms, flopping around like a dying fish, smashing my head into the metal bedposts, screaming and nearly nauseated.

He finally relented and casually walked over to his seat to sit and watch me. The other followed suit. I was shaking and could smell burnt flesh in the air. I’d pissed myself. My coughing was so severe, I could hardly see. Tears stung my eyes, and then through the blur of pain, I realized the iron door had opened. It was him.

My vision was hazy, but I could make out his blue suit and the line his jaw cut against the bright light spilling past him from the hall.

“What the hell did you do?” he said in a quiet but angry voice.

“He punched me in the nuts, sir.”

“Just like that? He just woke up and hit you in the balls?”

“Pretty much. We—”

“Get out. Both of you. Get the hell out of here.”

The guards exchanged puzzled, chastened looks and then rose to leave. Each had to turn his torso to slide past the man, who did not move an inch as they departed. When they were gone, he hitched up his pants and sat down on one of the concrete stools, sliding it a few feet closer to me.

“Sorry about that, Tom. Army guys—you know the type, I’m sure. No good without specific orders.” He shook his head, glancing back at the open door. Then he leaned toward me. He reached into his outer jacket pocket and drew forth a bottle. “I brought you some water.”

“That was…” My voice failed as I tried to speak. I took the bottle and sucked at the tepid water. I coughed and then tried again. “That was sweet of you. Why, you think of everything.”

He laughed. “That’s my job, Mr. Vale. I’m Anthony Kirk. One of the directors of the Science and Development Research Department.”

I stared at him, finishing the water.

“I’m honestly sorry for how everything had to play out—if it could have been different, believe me, it would have. But … it’s not.” He studied me: my battered face, the urine stain on my pants, my damp, pale skin. His deep, intelligent eyes seemed saddened by what he saw, and for just a moment, emotion flickered across his dark complexion and it seemed he was about to say something. Then the fleeting look was replaced by clinical coldness. “I don’t think your injuries are too bad, so we’re going to get moving right away. Tonight, I hope—by morning, certainly. I’ll get you some new clothes, of course. And you can shower if you want to and rest for a while. The cells upstairs are much nicer.”

He rose and waited patiently as I clumsily did the same. Once on my feet, I eyed the slightly taller man intently and he held my gaze. “Tell me, Anthony. What … what did I do?”

“It’s not so much about you, Mr. Vale. Or at least you personally. I know it’s all very confusing and I empathize with your plight, but enough of it will make sense soon, I assure you. But we’re very busy, and so please, for now be content to know that knowledge is coming. Let’s get you cleaned up and rested.”

He turned and stepped out of the cell and then waited for me to follow. The hallway seemed more like that of an office building than a prison, not counting the iron doors along one wall. The floor was covered by a thin, blue green carpet, and the walls were a soft beige. Fluorescent track lighting cast a cold brightness. The corridor was maybe a hundred feet long. At the far end, in the direction we began walking, the two guards from my cell leaned against the wall.

Anthony Kirk led me down the hall, walking briskly. As we neared the soldiers, he subtly waved his hand, gesturing for them to step to one side. They did, and he opened the door behind them. It was made of plain wood, painted white.

The guard I’d struck let out a low growl as I passed him, and I made a sudden feint toward him, my fist stopping just short of his stomach. He sucked in air and shrank from the phantom punch, closing his eyes tightly. He quickly reopened them and they filled with loathing as I smiled, looking back as the white door swung shut.

We were in a lobby. The three elevators before me looked fabulously familiar.

“We’re in Science, aren’t we?” He nodded. “You have jail cells in the Science and Research Department?”

“I know it seems odd, Thomas. Space is at a premium in the city.” My mind went to the vacant factories and boarded-up buildings in the north end of town. As if reading my thoughts, he added: “Usable space, anyway. Very few buildings have steady power, water … Science was a natural fit, really. We use every square inch of this building for something.”

I stretched my neck from side to side. Kirk stood before me, not looking back. I could have attacked him—could have thrown my arms around his neck or kicked his knee in sideways or just lunged upon him, fists flying. If this really was Science, if I immobilized him, I could very likely take an elevator down, run through the lobby, and be free. But I knew I wouldn’t do it. What would I do then? Run out into the fog? That begged the question of what freedom really meant anymore. How long had they been watching me … Kirk and Lucid Jones and even Rebecca? Had she gone and convinced these guys that I’d killed their scientist, maybe? Then why the cordial treatment from Anthony Kirk?