The Rook: A Novel

by O'Malley, Daniel

  Bloody hell, thought Myfanwy. That’s pretty hardcore. She twisted around to find Ingrid and saw that her secretary was sitting behind her. She was obviously ill at ease but carried herself well. Myfanwy smiled at her, and caught by surprise, Ingrid smiled too. As Myfanwy turned back to the curtains, there was a crumpling beneath her, as if she were sitting on a sheet of paper. She felt about and pulled out a carefully folded wax-paper bag.

  “Gestalt?” she said, turning to the body seated next to her. “What’s this?”

  “But Myfanwy!” he exclaimed. “You always have a paper bag. You know how often these interrogations make you ill,” he said with a tone he might have intended to be comforting but that she found patronizing.

  “Oh, of course. I simply did not expect to sit on it,” Myfanwy replied, placing the bag on her lap. Thomas got sick at these things? She could just picture the timid person in this little body throwing up in front of these men. Aside from Ingrid, whom Myfanwy had invited on the spur of the moment, she was the only woman in the room. Poor Thomas, she thought. How humiliated she must have been. And then, eyeing the curtains in front of her dubiously, she wondered: What exactly is going to happen?

  The curtains trembled and then parted. As the red cloth flowed to the sides, the lights in the room dimmed. It’s exactly like a theater, and we are in our private box, she thought uneasily. In front of them was a thick pane of glass, and beyond that a room tiled in a pale blue. Soft lights glowed from the ceiling. Myfanwy’s imagination had summoned up a slab of stone with some poor soul bound to it by chains and straps, but instead she saw something more like a thickly cushioned dentist’s chair. Seated upon it was a man with his eyes closed. The sleeves of his shirt had been carefully cut off, and the pants legs had been rolled up. He was still. There were soft cloth straps binding him to the chair at his wrists, waist, and ankles. Something about the clinical matter-of-factness of it all was more alarming than the medieval images she’d conjured up.

  “Oh God,” Myfanwy murmured to herself, and drew a pitying glance from Gestalt. She tensed as a man entered the room. He had glasses, was dressed in scrubs, and wore a surgical mask. She looked about for his tools, some tray or trolley with gleaming metal instruments on it, but she saw nothing. Tension was building within her. If there was no equipment, then how did the Checquy members gather their information? Would there be some surreal torture, the man’s flesh and bones rending themselves? Would a psychic tear the thoughts out of his brain? What had horrified Thomas so much that she’d vomited regularly during these sessions? Myfanwy’s fingers gripped the arm of her chair, dimpling the soft cloth. She squirmed back against the cushions as the interrogator lifted his latex-gloved hands and reached for the man. Beside her, Gestalt leaned forward intently, and a hush descended upon the room.

  The interrogator rested his hands on the man’s hair and then began probing with his fingers, tracing the contours of the scalp. He leaned back slightly and spoke rapidly into a microphone that hung from the ceiling.

  “His ancestors hail almost exclusively from Western Europe, except for a great-grandfather from Poland,” he said. The loud man who had tried to intimidate Myfanwy gave a snort, and the interrogator froze. He drummed his fingers angrily on the subject’s head, and then continued. “He is predisposed to be talented at music and mathematics but is also prone to self-doubt. He has extraordinary physical courage and little to no sense of humor. He has no compunctions about killing.”

  The interrogator ran his fingers carefully down one of the man’s arms and paused at the wrist. Squinting, Myfanwy could see that he was pressing lightly and had closed his eyes.

  “He is thirty-two years old, the second-oldest child. He was born in June. He has undergone several major surgeries and received various implants. Among other organs, his kidneys and lungs have been replaced.” There was a long pause, and the interrogator cocked his head as if listening for something. “That surgery took place four years ago. He is right-handed. He is allergic to dairy.” The interrogator turned the man’s palms upward. He got down on one knee and leaned closer to the armrests of the chair, peering carefully at the lines crisscrossing the man’s palms.

  “He was born in Brussels, and his father died when he was four. In university he met a tall dark stranger. Female. It did not work out. He learned how to type. For several years, his employment was sporadic. Mainly manual labor. And he did a great deal of traveling. Then, when he was twenty-five, he joined the military. He learned martial arts. He did a great deal more traveling. There was violence. And he was committing most of it.” The interrogator stood up and walked over to the sink in the corner. He moistened a paper towel and carefully wiped the man’s hand with it. Then he fetched a magnifying glass and polished it. He peered at the hand again.

  “After two years in the military, his life took a major turn.”

  “Dr. Crisp, what was this turn?” called out the loud man, interrupting. The interrogator looked up in irritation.

  “I’m not sure,” he said testily. “Some sort of professional shift, but a drastic one.”

  “How can you tell?” asked the loud man. The man sitting next to him tried to shush him. “Perry, please don’t start,” Myfanwy heard him whisper to the big man.

  “Because his fingerprints have been removed,” the interrogator replied.

  Myfanwy jotted down a note on her pad; Gestalt subtly tried to sneak a peek, but she covered it.

  “What else do you see, Dr. Crisp?” she asked. He removed his glasses and squinted more closely at the hand.

  “A great deal more travel, and then he encountered a short, fair person whom he already knew very well. He appears to have found true love. And had three children. One of whom died. Twice.”

  “Twice?” exclaimed Perry. “How do you figure that?” The interrogator threw down his magnifying glass in exasperation.

  “All right, who is that?” Crisp asked.

  “What, can’t you tell by my voice?” Perry sneered.

  “The voices are electronically disguised, you colossal fool! But let me hazard a guess… is it someone whose eldest daughter hasn’t gotten married yet and never will?”

  “Well, of course she won’t now, you fraud! What kind of person tells an eighteen-year-old girl she’ll never get married?” Perry stood up and pounded his fist on the glass.

  “An accurate one!” yelled Crisp, striding over to the glass. He yanked his mask down to reveal a mustache and a goatee.

  “How dare you? You are a hack! A filthy liar!”

  “My talents are indisputable!” shrieked Crisp, spitting all over the glass in his rage. Unfortunately, he was unable to see through it, and he had chosen to stand right in front of Myfanwy, his eyes fixed on some imaginary point.

  “I dispute them!” Perry yelled back. “You scarred my daughter with your slanderous stories. What kind of swine drools all over a young girl’s hand at a Christmas party and then lies to her about her future?”

  “To begin with, you told her to consult me. And I said nothing that wouldn’t have been perfectly obvious to every hapless fool she spoke to! She has all the personality of a drink coaster!” They were both pounding on the glass now, and their shouts devolved into an incomprehensible roar of insults. This is unbelievable, thought Myfanwy. Everyone else was watching in rapt fascination, and so it apparently fell to her to do something. I’m the Rook, after all. And Gestalt doesn’t appear to be stepping in. She snuck a glance at her counterpart, who was looking on in amusement.

  “Gentlemen,” Myfanwy said calmly but to no avail because all the other men in the room had risen and were adding to the clamor. “Gentlemen,” she repeated, raising her voice a little. Still no response. Right, that does it, she thought in exasperation. Her patience had run out.

  “Gentlemen!” she finally shouted, and her voice cut through the noise like a scythe through a poodle. There was dead silence, and everyone stared at her, stunned. “You all need to shut up and stay focused on the task at
hand. Dr. Crisp, if you will turn your eyes back toward the interrogation, I wonder if you could revive the subject and question him.” All eyes swiveled back to the man in the chair, and there was some embarrassed clearing of throats. Everybody sat down abruptly, except Dr. Crisp, who pulled his surgical mask up again and strode back to the chair.

  A nurse had entered, carrying a polished steel tray on which lay a syringe filled with indigo fluid. Crisp took the syringe carefully, nodded his thanks to the nurse, and injected it into the subject’s arm. The man’s eyelids flickered, and Crisp took the opportunity to change his gloves. Finally, the prisoner came awake, looking around him with confusion.

  “Good morning,” said Dr. Crisp, attempting to sound calm and collected.

  “It’s afternoon,” corrected Perry dryly.

  “Shut up!” exclaimed Crisp, flashing the glass a dirty look. “Now,” he said, turning back to the subject. “I am going to ask you some questions, and you will answer truthfully. If you lie, I will know, and it will not be good for you.” The man stared at him, unblinking. “I’m sure you understand.” He gently laid his hand on the man’s wrist, placing his fingers on the pulse point. “Let us begin.”

  Myfanwy felt uneasy as she stared through the glass. She had relaxed a little earlier, when Crisp had read the lines on the subject’s hands. The physical examination had been passive, noninvasive. But now she could tell there would be pain and violence. She sat still, aware of Gestalt’s eyes on her. Her heart began to pound.

  “What is your name?” Crisp asked.

  “Peter Van Syoc,” the subject replied. His Dutch accent was thick, and although he spoke calmly, his eyes were wide open, staring at the glass. Myfanwy knew he could not see through, but she shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

  “True,” said Crisp. “Now, for whom do you work?”

  “Zeekoning Fishing Company,” Van Syoc answered. There was a pause.

  “That is, at best, a partial truth,” said Crisp finally. “Now that you can see I know a lie from the truth, I will ask you, for whom do you work?”

  “I told you, Zeekoning Fishing Company!” Van Syoc exclaimed. There was a little sound as Crisp sucked his teeth regretfully behind his mask. He kept one hand on Van Syoc’s wrist and placed his other hand on the subject’s fingertips. He carefully positioned each finger in a specific place, and Myfanwy saw his arms tense for a moment. Van Syoc flinched and drew a sharp breath tinged with shock.

  “For whom do you work?” All he received in answer was a terrified stare. Crisp sighed and pressed again. Van Syoc cried out, and this time it was words. Myfanwy listened closely; to her it seemed simply a collection of random syllables, but all the men in the room gasped. She twisted around, startled. The various section leaders looked pale, and Gestalt looked absolutely stricken. It was as if they had just received confirmation that Satan had arrived and was in the process of eating Glasgow.

  “Hmm,” she said, as if she understood the significance of Van Syoc’s words. She’d ask Ingrid later. Meanwhile, Crisp was gearing up for another question, and judging by the intent stares of the rest of the audience, Myfanwy thought this would be the truly important one.

  “Why are you here?” Crisp asked with a terrible focus. His fingers had tensed on the delicate pressure points of Van Syoc’s hand, and it was evident that the pain was increasing. “What are they doing?” he demanded. The muscles of the subject’s face were straining. His jaw was clenched shut, and his eyes bulged. Nevertheless, he did not speak. Gestalt made a sound in his throat, and the doctor released his grasp on the prisoner’s hand. Crisp moved closer to the glass and looked straight ahead, his hands by his sides.

  “Yes, sir?” he asked. Gestalt steepled his fingers, seemingly lost in thought, and stared at the man slumped in the chair. Eventually Perry summoned up the nerve to break the silence.

  “Rook Gestalt, we really must know what is going on here.”

  Gestalt assented dully. “Extract the information, Dr. Crisp. You are authorized by the Rooks,” Gestalt said.

  “Excuse me?” Myfanwy spoke without thinking, surprised at not being consulted, earning herself a startled glance from her counterpart.

  “That is, if you have no objections, Rook Thomas?” said Gestalt, a little bemused. The entire room was again staring at her in surprise.

  “Um, no. I suppose I have no objections,” she said. “Please proceed, Dr. Crisp.” The interrogator gave a short bow and turned back to the man in the chair. He placed himself carefully behind Van Syoc and spread his fingers wide, then cupped them around his victim’s skull. He began to press and stroke the skin.

  “Why are you here?”

  Van Syoc writhed in his chair, his limbs fighting themselves. Beneath his shirt, there were strange shudderings, as if his organs were attempting to rip themselves from his torso. A peculiar popping sound chattered through the room, echoing eerily through the microphones. For a moment, Myfanwy could not see the source of this sound, but then she realized it was Van Syoc’s teeth, rattling in their sockets. A thrill of horror went through her, and her flesh crawled.

  “What do they want?”

  The agony of the man was palpable. Indeed, she almost fancied that she could see the man’s sensations. They throbbed in front of her, like burning ribbons that flared and ebbed as impressions flowed through the channels of his body.

  “Why are you here?”

  Myfanwy shook her head, trying to focus on Van Syoc rather than the torment that washed out of him. In desperation, she turned to look at those around her and blinked in surprise. Around each person shivered an aura of sensations, concentric rings that overlapped one another. She felt that with a brush of her mind, she could leave every person there lying comatose on the floor. Her attention was dragged back to Van Syoc and the pain he was enduring. His senses flickered against hers, and she reeled internally. Her stomach heaved. She swallowed back her bile. This is why Thomas was always ill, she realized. She stared at the subject and felt pity.

  Myfanwy reached out to the man with her mind. Hesitantly, without really understanding what she was about to do, she touched the current that blazed most brightly, and turned off his pain.

  “Why are you here?”

  Van Syoc’s body continued to rack itself under Crisp’s touch, but Myfanwy could tell that his mind no longer felt it. Though the cords in his neck still stood out, his eyes darted around, looking for an explanation.

  Sitting on the other side of the glass, the explanation maintained her contact with Van Syoc’s system. Amazing, she thought, tracing the paths of his nerves. So this controls pain. She turned her attention to another portion. And this web is linked to the eyes. But what is this? This can’t be right. As she examined the anomaly, she frowned. Much of his system seemed obvious to her, almost self-explanatory, but there were sections that made no sense at all. Then a pulse rippled through his system, the work of Dr. Crisp. With an effort, she dragged her attention back to the rest of the world, where all was not well. The interrogator had clearly sensed that something was wrong, and he was sweating profusely.

  “What do they want?”

  Crisp dug in deeper and felt for the most sensitive junctures of nerves and energy, disrupting and agitating. Behind the glass, Myfanwy noticed his efforts, felt them crashing up against the barriers she had placed. There was only so much she could do against Crisp’s abilities, she admitted to herself. His influence was flowing over the walls she had created, and eventually it crashed down on the subject with unimaginable force.

  “Why are you here?”

  Van Syoc shrieked, a long shuddering wail. His mouth opened and closed, his lips flapping obscenely, and he struggled against himself. Are those words? Myfanwy thought. Is that an answer?

  There was an angry buzzing coming from somewhere, building in volume. They all looked around, except for Crisp, who was intent on his project. Then there was a wet pop, and the doctor snatched his hands away from his patient and stepped back with a
startled yelp. Perry gave a short laugh when he saw the doctor shaking his fingers and swearing.

  “Don’t be a fool, Perry,” Myfanwy said sharply. “Look at the body!”

  “The body,” echoed Gestalt. They all stared at Van Syoc, limp in the chair. He remained firmly bound, but there was an alarming stillness.

  Faint trails of smoke drifted around the earthly remains of Peter Van Syoc.

  What the hell was that, Crisp?” yelled Gestalt. The doctor had been brought into the observation room and was standing in front of a group of accusatory executives and an irate Rook. Myfanwy and Ingrid were still seated, but all the men had risen to their feet, presenting a united front. “You said that you could break anyone, that you could get us all the information we wanted!”

  “Rook Gestalt, you know my record is perfect,” Dr. Crisp said, staring down at the floor. His hands were clenched by his sides, but if Myfanwy was any judge, the man’s tension was the result of fear rather than anger. Of course, with Gestalt raging in front of him, his fear could be forgiven, but she could sense his puzzlement as well.

  “If your record is so goddamn perfect, then why is that thing in there dead?” Gestalt demanded. The lift doors swished open, and the twins were there, similarly enraged. They strode in, and everybody in the room stepped back.

  “I’m not certain myself,” said Crisp nervously. “The man had incredible tolerance, but I would have expected nothing less from someone with his training. I pushed him well beyond normal boundaries, but frankly, he should have broken much sooner.”

  “And died?” snarled Tidy Twin.

  “Was that supposed to happen much sooner, Crisp?” asked Cool Twin, curling his fingers into claws.

  “We need answers, Crisp!” yelled the handsome Gestalt. “I need answers, and thanks to you, they will not be forthcoming!”