“Friend,” he says, reaching out to shake my hand. I meet his eyes but say nothing, leaving my hand by my side. I hate this relentless game—the polite handshakes and cordial greetings, every civil transaction masking some unspoken horror.
The two of us walk up along the loading dock and through a locked door. Vivian is gone, but the tall guy seems to be hovering somewhere behind us.
We enter a hallway that leads to a stairwell. The stairwell leads to another hallway, then that hallway leads us through a laundry area, the air thick with steam. Seeing us, the workers all stop what they’re doing and stare. Up more stairs, down other hallways, through more locked doors, all with complicated keypads, each door in the maze slamming shut behind us.
The place is empty, hushed, save for the slamming doors and the echo of our shoes. The man is not speaking to me. I imagine that my refusal to shake his hand only made things worse.
But before, when he called me Friend, he seemed so flustered when I did not respond. How can one learn how to play the game when the rules are always changing?
We go through a labyrinth of stairwells into the belly of the building. At one point, we travel through a noisy boiler room, then through a series of storage rooms and up four flights of stairs. Sweat pours into my eyes, blurring my vision. The trip is so long that it becomes almost absurd. The air seems thin, and I struggle to catch my breath. I’m reminded of that first day here, following Gordon. Even before I knew where he was taking me, I realized that escape was impossible. Throughout, my guide says nothing.
Finally, a series of locked doors, a mantrap, and a metal detector lead into the longest hallway I’ve ever seen. The concrete floors give way to plush carpet, and dazzling light flows in from many windows. I lift my hand to shield my eyes against the glare. Behind us, I can still hear the quiet footsteps of the tall man’s size-fifteen shoes. As we walk, I become aware of a room at the end, a door standing open.
The hallway is so long, the sun through the high windows so blinding, that at first I think I’ve imagined the blaze of red at the far end, standing there in the open doorway. A woman. We are moving toward her. My heart pounds. For an instant, I freeze at the telltale movement, a way she has of holding her elbows as if she is cold. It is all so familiar, my eyes must be tricking me.
But as the distance between us closes, I realize that it is, in fact, exactly who it seems to be.
97
I walk through the open door. She is standing there just inside the room, utterly still, wearing a formal red dress cut to show off her pale shoulders. Her hair is pulled tightly to one side, wound into an elaborate knot. She seems so polished, her makeup more pronounced than I’m used to, her nails perfectly manicured in a deeper red, her jewelry—a single strand of pearls I’ve never seen before and small, shiny earrings—impeccable. As I get closer, she doesn’t say a word.
“I imagine you two would prefer some time alone,” my escort says. He meets my eyes, looking nervous, before walking out of the room, shutting the door behind him. I realize that we must be in the hotel wing. The room contains a king-sized bed, an elegant desk, a window overlooking the desert.
I open my mouth to speak, but no words come. As Alice stands before me, beautiful, I am speechless with happiness and relief.
How long has she been in this room, waiting for me?
Overwhelmed, I reach out and pull her toward me. She slides her arms around my waist and nestles in close. She sighs deeply, and I understand that she too is relieved. I hold her tightly, feeling the warmth of her body, her head on my shoulder. She feels good, but there is this: She doesn’t seem entirely like Alice. Maybe it’s the hair, the makeup, the dress; I’m not sure. I step back for a second. She looks wonderful but different. It is the same Alice, yes, but dressed for a different role, a role in a theater production I’ve never seen.
“I went to Ireland,” I say. “I went to find Orla.”
“And you came back.”
Hearing her voice, I realize this is not a punishment. I have not been led to my doom. Orla was indeed telling the truth.
“We could still make a run for it,” I say.
Alice smiles sadly. “In these shoes?”
She kisses me, long and soft, and for a moment I almost forget where we are.
But then I hear voices, and I pull away. Paranoid, I glance at the corners of the ceiling, looking for a telltale light. I listen for the buzz of equipment. I gaze at the strip of light under the door, looking for signs of movement. I go to the window and look past the ivy-covered fence to the immense desert beyond. Nothing but sand and scrub for miles. It all seems so unreal—for a moment, I am mesmerized by the orange sun hovering over the desert.
When I turn to face the room, Alice is standing before me, naked, the red dress pooled around her feet. Sunlight pours through the window and I stare at my wife in wonder. I see how pale she is, how thin. I wonder if the mark on her ribs is a bruise, days old, or just a trick of the shadows.
I walk to her. She reaches out and unbuttons my shirt, unbuckles my belt, runs her fingernails over my chest. I touch her face, her breasts. Her skin beneath my hands is so warm. I’ve missed her so much.
As my wife pulls me toward her, I cannot help but wonder if this beautiful moment is a dream. Or worse, is it a performance?
For a split second, I have a vision of a small room, video monitors, someone in a drab gray uniform watching us, listening. Alice steps away from me. I watch her move toward the bed. She lies back on the white sheets and opens her arms. “Come here,” she commands, the expression on her face impossible to read.
98
I roll over, reaching for my wife, and realize with a shock that the bed beside me is empty. I jolt up, panicked. But Alice is there, sitting in the chair at the end of the bed, watching me. She is back in the red dress, but her makeup has faded and her careful hairdo has come undone. She looks like herself again.
I ask the question I’ve been avoiding. “Did they hurt you?”
Alice shakes her head. She comes over to sit beside me. “They had me in solitary for two days, maybe longer, then I was moved to this room, no explanation. I’ve been free to roam the grounds as I please.” She gestures toward the window. “But where would I go?”
I get out of bed and am reaching for my clothes on the floor when Alice says, “Look in the closet.”
I slide open the door. There, on velvet hangers, are an impressive suit, a crisp linen shirt, and a Ted Baker tie. On the floor is a shoe box containing shoes of Italian leather. “When I came out of the shower this morning,” Alice says, “all of my clothes were gone. This dress was hanging in the closet. A woman came in to do my hair, makeup, and nails. When I asked her what it was all about, she told me she wasn’t at liberty to say. She seemed nervous.”
I pull on the white shirt, the pants, the jacket. It all fits perfectly. The shoes also appear to have been custom-made for me.
Alice takes a small velvet box from the desk and opens it to reveal two gold cuff links in the shape of the letter P. I hold out my wrists, and she pins them on.
“What now?” I ask.
“I have no idea. Jake, I’m scared.”
I approach the door, half-expecting it to be locked from the outside. But the knob turns and the door opens. As an afterthought, I grab a large glass bottle of water, a futile weapon. Together, we step into the empty hallway.
99
Strange to find us together in this place. Standing here with my wife, I can almost pretend that it is just the two of us. I can almost pretend that we are not surrounded by concrete, barbed wire, and an endless desert.
We begin walking toward the elevators. I hear voices, but I can’t tell where they’re coming from. Then a door opens as we pass and a man steps out. Tall, wearing a dark suit and red tie. And though I am startled to be face-to-face with him, in some way it makes perfect sense.
“Hello, Friends.”
I nod. “Finnegan.”
He looks first at Alice, then at
me. His gaze is intense, but I do not look away. “There is something Orla would like for you to see.”
With that, Finnegan pulls the door wide open to reveal a narrow, windowless room. Alice leads me in, and I feel Finnegan’s hand on my back urging me forward. Along one wall is a dark curtain. Finnegan draws back the curtain to reveal a long window, looking onto a chapel of some sort, lit by a grand chandelier.
The place is packed. There is a buzz of chatter, an expectant electricity permeating the room. People hold full champagne flutes, but no one is drinking. It is as if they are waiting for something. Strangely, when the curtain parts, no one glances in our direction.
“They can’t see us,” Alice observes.
There are faces I recognize but many more I don’t. I look for Neil, JoAnne, Gordon, everyone from the black-and-white photos lining the wall of the marble courtroom. I remember staring at each of the portraits, waiting for the judge to hand down my sentence. For a moment, I wonder where they are. But then I think I understand.
Finnegan stands by silently as we watch the crowd. After a minute, he touches a button and yet another door swings open, revealing only darkness. Alice takes a trembling breath and leads me into the unknown, her fingers entwined through mine.
I feel a hand on each shoulder and turn to see that it is Finnegan’s wife, Fiona. She wears the same green dress she wore on the day of our wedding. She and Finnegan silently fall in behind us.
Candles line the walls of the narrow corridor, flickering in the darkness. Behind us there is only the sound of feet moving across the floor. A moan echoes down the corridor from up ahead. We are not alone. My heart starts beating faster, I feel sweat running down my arms, my back. Beside me, though, Alice seems at peace; eager, even.
As we walk, the sounds intensify—a chain rattling, something struggling in an enclosed space. The breathing becomes louder, the echo of more chains, something pulling or perhaps stuck. A motion sensor clicks, dimly lighting the way in front of us. I glance to my right and see a tall, familiar structure. I freeze, only to realize that it’s just inches from me. And then a figure comes into view—standing between sheets of plexiglass, arms and legs outstretched and shackled. A Focus Collar forces him to stare straight ahead. As we move past, another motion sensor clicks and a spotlight blazes down upon the structure for a second, maybe two. Through the fog of condensation on the glass, the face becomes clear. For a moment, I lock eyes with the judge, the man who approved my interrogation. His eyes betray no emotion. And then he is plunged into darkness once again.
I turn to Alice, only to realize that she is looking to the other side, more plexiglass, another installation. A woman. I remember meeting her at one of the parties, remember seeing her in the corridors of Fernley: an esteemed member of the board. Her hair is matted, her face shiny with perspiration.
Alice pauses before her, mesmerized.
One by one, we pass the towering, living installations. One by one, motion sensors click on, briefly illuminating the prisoners’ faces. Their expressions are impossible to read. Is it fear? Is it shame? Or something else—an understanding that justice has been achieved? That no one is above the laws of The Pact? Its mission must be served. Balance must be restored, no matter what.
As Finnegan and Fiona follow us a few paces behind—each stopping to look, then moving on—the hallway is filled with flashing lights. Members of the board, alone in their glass frames, shackled, each a witness to his or her own fall from grace. Specimens for study, as I once was. Subjects under a microscope. Only the terror in their eyes and the persistent clatter one prisoner makes, struggling against the firm restraints, remind us that this is life, not art.
I remember the moment when Orla asked me what penalties should be meted out to those who abused their power, those who subverted the goals of The Pact for their own desires. I do not regret my answer.
Good and evil are complicated. Who we are, and who we think we are, are rarely one and the same.
Perhaps Orla and I, The Pact and I, are not as different as I once thought.
Up ahead, there are two final installations, set apart from the others and surrounded by candles. As Alice and I move between them, I focus my gaze in front of me. I do not need to look; I know who is there. On my left, I sense Alice’s hand reaching toward the thin plexiglass frame that separates her from JoAnne. As the motion sensor clicks and the light shines down, I hear the brush of Alice’s fingers sliding along the glass.
100
At the end of the corridor, we take a sharp turn right, then right again. In the darkness, I try to get my bearings. I have the feeling that we are returning to where we started, every step leading us deeper into the prison. And then a light flickers and Orla comes into view. She is standing beside a tall candelabra, clad in white, watching us, waiting.
When I pause, Alice tugs me forward gently. She moves without hesitation, her hand so warm, so right. It all seems incongruous—this inertia, this momentum, propelling us forward.
We stand before Orla. The candle flame carves shadows across her pale face. To her left is a closed door, painted gold. To her right, another closed door, this one painted white.
“Hello, Friends.” She leans forward to kiss Alice on the cheek, then me. She is even more frail than when I saw her just days ago. Her voice is weak, her skin sallow. “Perhaps now I have earned your trust,” she says.
I nod.
“And you have earned mine.” She gestures toward the gold door on her left. “Step closer. Listen.”
I put my ear to the door. Alice does the same. On the other side, there are voices. Dozens of voices, all talking at once. Glasses, faint music—the sounds of a party. I realize we have somehow been led back behind the chapel.
Alice looks down at her red dress, as if for the first time she understands its purpose.
“On the other side of that door are forty of our most esteemed, most trusted members,” Orla says. “They have no idea why they have been summoned here.”
I look at Alice. She doesn’t seem afraid. Far from it. She looks intrigued.
“I have taken The Pact as far as I can,” Orla continues. “And now it is time for me to let go. I cannot leave this earth without knowing that The Pact will be taken care of, that it will evolve and grow.”
Alice remains motionless beside me. Orla is watching her carefully, and it occurs to me that Orla knew from the beginning exactly how this was going to end.
“In one hand, a leader holds kindness, and in the other, discipline. I have seen that you are capable of finding this balance.” She steps closer. “Jake, Alice, with all my heart, I believe you are the ones to lead The Pact into this new chapter. However, in order to be a great leader, one must be willing. One must accept the responsibility without hesitation, without regret.”
Orla places one hand on my shoulder and the other on Alice’s shoulder. “That is why I am giving you a choice. If you step through the gold door, all of the resources of The Pact will be at your disposal. You will be able to shape it as you see fit. I will stand with you in that chapel, we will stand with Friends, and I will announce you both as our new leaders.”
“And the white door?” Alice asks.
Orla coughs violently, sagging against me, clenching my arm. I feel the surprising strength of her fingers through my suit jacket as I reach out to steady her. Seconds later, she recovers, and she seems to stand taller than before, as if she is summoning all of her strength.
“My dear Jake, my dear Alice, as you know, no one in the history of The Pact has ever been allowed to leave. Never. However, given the significance of what I am asking of you, it is only fair to allow you to choose. The white door is an exit. If you walk through it, your obligations to The Pact will cease immediately. But know this: step out that door and no one will come to save you. No one will come to save Alice. You will be completely on your own. Live or die. Alone.”
I look at Alice, regal in her red dress. Her eyes are shining, her face expectan
t. I try to figure out what she is thinking—my wife, who is always determined to win. My wife, who contains multitudes.
I imagine walking through the gold door. I can see us moving through the crowd, hands brushing our arms, our backs. I imagine the well-dressed couples, their devotion, that collective embrace. I imagine the hush falling over the crowd as Alice and I step forward, lift our glasses into the air, and utter a single, powerful word: “Friends.”
Alice grasps my hand, and in that moment I know. For better, for worse, she is with me. She pulls me in close and I feel her breath against my neck as she whispers in my ear. Words of encouragement and, yes, something else. Words meant just for me.
I place my hand on the knob and turn.
101
We step out into the desert night. There are millions of stars, more than I’ve ever seen. The lawn beneath our feet is green, still damp from the sprinklers. A hundred yards on is the chain-link fence, eight feet tall, covered with ivy.
Alice slips off her heels and tosses them onto the grass. “Now,” she whispers. We sprint toward the fence. There are no sirens, no flashing lights, just the soft pounding of our feet on the grass.
At the fence, we rip away a cluster of ivy to find a foothold. Side by side, we climb. Despite her days at Fernley, Alice is still strong from her morning sessions at Ocean Beach, and it only takes her a few seconds to scale the fence. We drop down on the other side, onto the cool desert sand. We collapse into each other’s arms, laughing, giddy with our newfound freedom.
It takes us several seconds to catch our breath. They are letting us go.
We both stop laughing. I look into Alice’s eyes, and I know what she is thinking. Are we really on our own?
I imagine a highway far off in the distance, black under the moon, reflecting yellow stripes to point the way home. But I can’t see a highway. Giant cacti dot the landscape. The desert stretches on endlessly. There are no lights from distant towns, no sounds of civilization.
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