by Jack Heath
Then a gun went off above his head.
‘Turns out there was someone home,’ he says. ‘Can you believe that? She was too scared to open the door when I knocked. Social anxiety or some bullshit like that. So she saw me out the window climbing over the gate, and when she heard me crawling around under the house, her solution was to go get a gun and start shooting into the fucking floor. I nearly shat my pants, and crawled out of there as fast as I could. But after the second shot, she stops firing and starts screaming. Get this: she literally shot herself in the foot. I mean, not directly, it was a ricochet—but can you imagine?’
Donnie doubles over, laughing too hard to continue the story.
‘What happened after that?’ I ask.
Donnie wipes some tears from his eyes. ‘So the Black guy next door, he hears the gunshots and calls the police. Now he cares, right? I was already gone by the time they got there, but he took down my licence plate number, because he thought I was the one shooting. So the cops pick me up later. I tell them the truth, but they decide to press charges for breaking and entering—even though I was only trying to help. I get pulled up in front of a lady judge. I already had a suspended sentence for aggravated assault, so the judge puts me away for eighteen months.’
He glances at me, checking my reaction to the mention of the assault charge. Then he looks pleased, mistaking my complete lack of surprise for approval.
‘And this makes the news, right?’ he continues. ‘Vigilante Plumber Shot At By Anxious Housewife. So in prison I get a few calls from bloggers, podcasters, whatever. And then, two days after I’m released, I get the call from Fred.’
Donnie’s smile fades as he tells me about that phone call. It was confusing at first. He wasn’t sure how Fred had gotten his number. They had no mutual contacts. Unlike the podcasters, Fred was interested in the assault as well as the water pipe incident. And unlike them, he seemed to appreciate what Donnie had been trying to do.
‘I like a guy who’s willing to go above and beyond,’ Fred told him. ‘To do the right thing, even when the so-called “justice system” says to look the other way. You should be proud, man.’
I’m starting to get a sense of how Fred chooses his staff. He likes practical skills. He likes violence. And he likes crusaders, or at least people inclined to see themselves that way—and inclined to see those with different priorities as enemy combatants.
I give the camera back to Donnie, who reattaches it to the tree.
‘That’s the last one.’ He cracks his knuckles. ‘Let’s go get some lunch.’
‘What happened to the woman whose house you broke into?’ I ask.
‘Oh, she died,’ Donnie says. ‘It turns out that shooting yourself in the foot is pretty serious.’
CHAPTER 27
This building has no lock, no door, no guards. It is easy to enter, yet hard to leave. What is it?
My eighth-grade math teacher was Mrs Jefferson, a chinless woman with a dry sense of humour who wore huge, bright necklaces and liked to put her feet on her desk while we were working. One time she handed out copies of a maze to the whole class and said she’d give a prize to whoever solved it first.
I took one look at mine and decided it was unsolvable. There were dozens of intersections leading to hundreds of dead ends. Mrs Jefferson had obviously printed out the most complicated maze she could find in the hope of keeping us busy all lesson. Looking around, I saw that most of my classmates had come to the same conclusion and were looking out the window or scratching graffiti into their desks. I flipped the paper over and started sketching an enormously fat man. I had little artistic talent and didn’t know why I was doing this. I didn’t yet understand that it was a kind of homemade pornography.
I’d hardly finished his enormous round belly when another student called out, ‘Done!’ and thrust her paper in the air like an Olympic torch. I was suspicious. She must have cheated—there was no way to solve so complex a maze so quickly. It wasn’t as though the student was a genius. I’d once seen her ball up a muffin wrapper and swallow it.
But Mrs Jefferson didn’t look surprised. She got up, walked over, took the sheet and examined it. ‘Well done, Yvette.’
‘It was super easy,’ Yvette said. ‘There were no choices or anything.’
I flipped my sheet over and looked at the maze again. Yvette was right. The correct route was the only route. Starting at either end of the maze lead inexorably to the other, cutting right through the labyrinth of dead ends. None of the intersections were connected to the main path.
‘Your prize is the knowledge that some things look impossible until you try them,’ Mrs Jefferson said. ‘You can share it with the rest of the class.’
She probably thought that was inspiring, but Yvette and the rest of the class just looked annoyed. Most of the kids were like me. Poor, beaten—some literally—and sick of being told that we just had to work harder and believe in ourselves more.
Anyway, that was our introduction to calculus. The way Mrs Jefferson talked, impressed with her own wisdom, reminds me of Cedric a bit.
‘People don’t always know what they want or why they want it,’ Cedric is saying.
We’re in the editing room. Cedric is facing the monitors, a few hundred flash drives piled on the desk in front of him. I’m sitting behind him at a table covered in padded envelopes and small cardboard boxes. Every few seconds, he swivels in his chair to hand me a flash drive and an address label. I put the drive in a box, the box in an envelope and the label on top, before dumping it in a tray under the table. We’re both wearing latex gloves to keep our prints off the packages.
We’ve been packing envelopes all afternoon, and Cedric hasn’t once mentioned the kiss. The bite. He seems to be pretending it never happened. Just like Samson did, after their tryst.
‘We could have more pricing options on the site,’ Cedric continues. ‘Download the videos for fifty dollars per month. Get it mailed to you in a crappy little bag, fifty-five. Or get it mailed to you in a luxurious gift box, sixty. You know what would happen?’
I don’t really care. My mind is on Thistle, chained up in that freezing slaughterhouse waiting for me to save her. Before the new cameras arrive tomorrow.
‘Everyone—well, pretty much everyone—would pick the cheapest option,’ Cedric says, as if I’d responded. ‘Then they’d be unsatisfied, even though they got exactly what they asked for. And sooner or later, they’d unsubscribe. That’s what happened when we ran the site on that model.’ He passes me another flash drive and an address label. ‘But if getting a sexy flash drive in a beautiful box is the only option, they’re happy to pay through the nose for it forever.’
I don’t think Cedric’s definitions of sexy or beautiful overlap with my own. The flash drives are white and featureless except for the word Guards laser-etched on one side. They look like the headstones at Arlington. The boxes are black cardboard, about the right size for an engagement ring. But inside there’s foam rubber, the kind rifle scopes are packed in, with a slot just the right size for the drive.
I suppose they’re beautiful in the same way Zara is. Immaculate, but enigmatic. Small but dangerous.
‘I guess you have to find a compromise between presentation and price,’ I say, still barely paying attention to Cedric.
‘Wrong,’ Cedric says. ‘You have to go with one or the other. No compromise. You see, if everything is beautifully presented, if even opening the box is an experience, people respect that. But if looks homemade, people respect that, too. They like the authenticity of it. Or if it’s the cheapest in the market, you’ll make plenty of sales that way. But semiprofessional? Cheap-ish, classy-ish, authentic-ish? That’s the danger zone. There’s no market for that.’
I seal an envelope and stick on the address label. This one is going to the UK, but I’ve seen others headed for Germany, China, Brazil, Australia.
‘There’s no name on this one,’ I say.
Cedric waves a hand. ‘That’s fine. We don�
��t do signature on delivery.’
‘How do you stop the drives from going to the wrong people?’
Cedric gives me a funny look. ‘The password.’
I’d forgotten that I was supposed to be Lux, a long-time subscriber who would know that the drives are password-protected. I know it, too. I even know what his password was. I’m just distracted.
‘I’m not worried about other people finding out what’s on them,’ I say, thinking quickly. ‘I just thought if subscribers didn’t get their drives, they’d blame you. Us.’
Cedric shrugs. ‘What are they going to do, call the Federal Trade Commission?’ Then he looks anxious suddenly. Perhaps for a second he, too, forgot that Lux had been a subscriber. ‘Doesn’t happen often, though. Even if the subscriber doesn’t use their real name, we know who they are, who they vote for, what their religion is …’
‘How?’
Cedric doesn’t answer. He’s frowning at something on one of the monitors. ‘Goddamn. Look at these numbers.’
While he’s distracted, I grab a blank label and a pen, and scribble an address.
Dr Norman
1 Justice Park Drive
Houston, TX 77092
I finish just as Cedric turns back around with the next flash drive and address label.
‘What are you writing?’ he asks.
‘Torture ideas,’ I say quickly, covering the address with one hand.
‘For the new prisoner?’
‘Right.’
‘Well, you’d better move fast.’
I don’t know what he means by that. As he turns back to face his computer, I peel off one of my latex gloves and stick the label to one of the packages. I squeeze the package so my fingerprints are all over it.
‘How long does it take the packages to arrive?’ I ask.
Cedric shrugs. ‘Depends where they’re going. A week? Two?’
My heart sinks. Thistle and I can’t survive another week here. The cameras arrive tomorrow. And I don’t even know how often Dr Norman checks her mail at the FBI field office, or how long it will take her to figure out what’s going on. For all I know, she’s away on vacation right now.
Still, I remember Mrs Jefferson. Some things look impossible until you try them. On the back of Norman’s envelope, I quickly scribble the GPS coordinates that led me to this place, and my name. Then I bury it among the others, hoping no one will notice.
‘See, check this out.’ Cedric angles the monitor so I can see it. On the screen is a list of comments from the site:
—So excited to meet the new inmate! *does happy dance*
—The baby killer is an FBI agent?? Fucking DESTROY HER.
—Cut the FBI bitch’s head off.
—Rape her with her own gun.
It feels like I’m falling into a well. Cold stone all around, less and less daylight above.
But the comments aren’t even what Cedric is pointing at. Beneath them is a pie chart divided into six uneven slices. One slice, much bigger than the others, is labelled: Baby Killer.
I figure out what I’m looking at even as Cedric says the words.
‘Polling results.’ He hovers over the chart with the mouse. ‘The new prisoner is miles ahead of any of the others. Hundreds of votes. We only just got her, and the subscribers want us to kill her already? It’s like, learn some patience.’
I crush the arms of my chair in my hands.
‘Are you okay?’ Cedric says.
I open my mouth to talk, but it’s like something is lodged in my throat.
‘Lux?’
Just say something. If your cover gets blown, you can’t save her.
I fake a cough, which turns into a real coughing fit.
‘I get it. It’s a shock.’ Cedric gestures at the comments on the screen. ‘I’m not saying those bastards out in the slaughterhouse don’t deserve it. But sometimes the things the subscribers come up with …’ A shadow passes over his face.
‘Yeah.’ I look up at him, relieved that he understands. Maybe I have an ally here.
‘Oh, well,’ Cedric says, like it can’t be helped. Then he sits down at the computer and prints out another sheet of address labels.
I try to keep my voice steady. ‘When does voting close?’
‘Saturday. So if she wins—and it sure looks like she will—we’ll kill her on Sunday. Whatever you want to do to her, you’ll have to do before then.’
Today is Thursday. I have three days to get Thistle out of here.
Donnie appears in the doorway. He avoids looking at Cedric entirely and lasers right in on me. He’s holding a medieval battleaxe.
I try to look calm.
‘Lux,’ he says.
I clear my throat. ‘Yeah?’
‘You’re up.’
CHAPTER 28
She’s sweet, refined and always full of energy. People love her, but she kills them. Who is she?
The sun is going down as I follow Donnie to the slaughterhouse. He has a spring in his step and he’s spinning the battleaxe in his hands.
The old FBI director, Peter Luzhin, used to steal the cadavers of death-row inmates. That was how he rewarded me for solving cases. I sometimes watched the executions. The condemned men would shuffle into the execution chamber as though their shoes were made of lead. Their heads bowed as if before a vengeful God.
Now I understand how they felt.
‘Keep up, Lux,’ Donnie says. ‘It’s getting late.’
I force myself to walk a little faster. ‘Sorry.’
‘Don’t kill her, all right? Cuts and bruises are fine, and broken bones aren’t a problem, but don’t chop off anything that she might bleed out through.’
‘We should wait,’ I say. ‘The cameras are still broken.’
‘That’s the point,’ Donnie says. ‘No offence, but it takes skill to do what I do. Think of this as a dry run. An audition.’
‘But I wanted the first time to be recorded.’
Donnie holds up his phone. ‘Gotcha covered.’
He hauls the slaughterhouse door open. The screaming turns into whimpering when the prisoners see our masks and Donnie’s axe. We’re not here to save them. We’re here to make things worse.
Donnie walks over to Thistle, who is slumped on the floor, unconscious. She must be exhausted after pulling on her chains all day. Her wrists are red and raw. Instead of her Hello Kitty T-shirt, she’s wearing a loose suit with a skirt and a fake FBI lanyard. The Guards have given her a costume. The thought that one of them watched her undress, or stripped her, makes me feel sick.
‘Wake up, bitch,’ Donnie says. ‘It’s Judgement Day.’
Thistle doesn’t move.
Donnie nudges her foot with his own. ‘Hey. FBI lady.’
Thistle doesn’t react to this.
‘Maybe we should come back another time,’ I say.
‘Screw that.’ Donnie leans down and grabs Thistle’s hair. ‘Wake up, you—’
Thistle drops the act and lashes out at him with her free hand. At the same time, she tries to kick his kneecap inside out.
But Donnie must have been half-expecting this. He lets go of her and darts back, twisting his leg just enough to protect his knee. The punch which should have broken his nose glances harmlessly off the top of his head.
‘Whoa!’ He laughs. ‘She’s a fighter. This is gonna be fun.’
Thistle looks warily from him to me. ‘What you do right now could be the difference between a prison sentence and a lethal injection.’
Donnie smirks and hands me the axe. The blade is chipped and the wooden handle is rough. It’s not as heavy as it looks, but it’s still sharp and long enough to do some damage.
‘Go to town, Lux,’ he says.
‘Sure,’ I say, thinking fast. ‘But not on her.’
Donnie looks puzzled. ‘But she’s yours. We got her for you.’
One of Thistle’s nostrils lifts up, like she’s thinking about spitting on me.
If I refuse to torture a
prisoner, my cover is blown, and the prisoner will be brutalised by the other Guards. So my plan is to fake it—but it has to be very convincing. That means someone might get hurt for real, and I don’t want it to be Thistle.
I lean close to Donnie. ‘It’s all about the anticipation,’ I whisper. ‘She has to see someone else take a beating. Let that simmer for a few days.’
Donnie looks impressed. ‘That’s cold. I like it.’
I point to the woman in the shredded evening gown, chained to a loop in the door of the priest’s confessional. The Abuser, who burned her husband with the lighter. She moans.
‘I want that one,’ I say.
Donnie looks uncertain. ‘Ivy? Fred usually does her.’
‘Oh. I can choose someone else?’
All the other prisoners tense up. Amar, the Terrorist, mutters a prayer.
‘No,’ Donnie says. ‘It’s probably okay.’
I give the axe back to Donnie. ‘You can keep that.’
‘You sure?’
I flex my hands. ‘These are all I need.’
Ivy crawls backwards as I approach, until the chain around her ankle goes taut. Her skin is unblemished, and she’s not as thin as the others, even though they’re all served the same dog food. Maybe she hasn’t been here as long. Or maybe it’s metabolic. Some people eat nothing but sugar yet stay thin, while others eat nothing at all and stay fat.
The point is, she has some cushioning. What I’m about to do won’t hurt as much.
I tell myself that’s the only reason I picked her. Not because, if this doesn’t work, I might have to convince Donnie by taking a bite out of her.
‘Get up,’ I tell her.
She does, slowly, staring at the stained concrete with her large, dark eyes. She’s beautiful. Maybe that’s why the subscribers picked her. The prettier the car, the prettier the crash.
I can’t give her any kind of non-verbal signal if she won’t make eye contact. ‘Look at me.’
She doesn’t. She just trembles.
The church confessional is right there. Ivy is the only prisoner with any potential privacy. I wish I could take her inside and explain. But I can’t think of a believable pretext. So I grab her by the throat, slam the back of her skull against the wall next to the confessional—or it looks like I do. I kick the tin wall at the same moment, making a convincing boom.