by Rob Thurman
“Here we are.” There was the turn of two keys, and a heavy slab of a door was opened as teeth were bared in a humorless grin, paying me back. “Cell sweet cell.”
A hall bathed in subdued light ran for about twenty-five feet, then branched off in both directions. Doors with small glass and chicken-wire windows were evenly spaced on both sides. “Any of my respected associates here? Bunkmates?”
“No. All turned out to be more reasonable than you.” The pale eyes were fixed on me coolly. “Imagine that.” Unlocking a door on the left, he continued brusquely, “Seven A.M. wake-up call. Be ready by seven thirty. It’s going to be a long day.”
Long day. Right now, that was the least of my concerns. I stared past him into the room. It was small and military bare. One narrow bed, a small desk with a chair, and a wall-mounted lamp. There wasn’t room for anything else. Although the walls weren’t pink, I could still taste the chalk and sweat of Cane Lake. It purged the aftertaste of the beer and roiled sickly on the back of my tongue. Not the state home, but it may as well have been. I was a prisoner again. Trapped yet one more damn time.
“There’s a bathroom and shower through the far door.” The eyes were still on me. Assessing now. Measuring. “You will be locked in. I can’t do anything about that. Project regulations.”
“My sister would be enough to keep me here,” I responded tightly, shifting my weight. “You don’t need a goddamn lock.”
“Regulations,” he repeated, unmoved.
Taking a breath, I held it for a second, then blew it out. “Yeah, regulations,” I said colorlessly. I hefted the duffel bag and walked through the doorway. I tossed the bag onto the bed with every expectation of hearing the door slam behind me. When it didn’t, I looked over my shoulder to see Charlie’s brother watching me. Not John Chang, not Hector the blackmailer, but the brother Charlie had talked about with pride more than ten years ago.
“I remember what it was like.” The keys dangled in his hand, catching the dim light. “Being a ‘guest’ of the state.” His lips twisted, and he ran a hand over his short hair as he said with a tone brittle as old glass, “I guess we all do.” The hand dropped to the door handle. “Call if you need anything. Someone is on duty at all times.”
He paused, then added without emotion, “Welcome to Summerland.” He gave the name a special emphasis, but by the time my eyes went to the buttonless and featureless phone on the desk and back again, he was gone. The lock engaged with a metallic click, and I was alone.
In a cage.
I shook it off. It wasn’t my first cage. I’d gotten out of that one, and I would get out of this one. I just had to bide my time. Play the cards I was dealt. Live by all those useless clichés that never helped a damn when they were actually applied to you. Leaning over the desk, I switched on the lamp. The puddle of light was anemic at best, especially compared with the pitiless glare of the overhead fluorescent light. I hit the switch by the door, and the buzzing white light flickered then went dark. Sometimes the dark was better … or the near dark, anyway. I returned to the desk and sat down. Resting my hand flat on the surface, I considered. Time to take the gloves off.
Literally.
7
Morning came. That was the best you could say about it. It came. The phone rang twice promptly at seven and then went silent. I didn’t bother to pick it up. There wasn’t anyone I particularly cared to talk to right now, and I doubted whoever was at the other end would take an order for eggs over easy. I swung my legs over the edge of the bed and sat for a moment with aching head in hands. I’d taken the gloves off, all right … for all the good it did. The room was as empty and sterile as the surface of the moon. The cheap furniture was all new, as were the sheets and blanket. The same thin, scratchy wool that I’d slept under at Cane Lake. It made me wonder: Was there, like, one guy who had the market cornered? Was he standing on a street corner hawking his wares? “Institutional blankets! Get your institutional blankets here!” Intimidate children and freeze the asses off adults, what a bargain.
As for the room, I’d gotten exactly jack shit off of it. Even the walls themselves had nothing to tell me. As far as I could tell, I was the first person to have slept here. My buddy Hector Allgood really wasn’t taking any chances. But why? He wanted to use me, use what I could do, yet he was damn sure doing his best to keep me from it. Between trying to puzzle that out and the hangover from trying to suck information out of a place where it simply didn’t exist, the headache was a solid weight behind my eyes. Grimacing, I stood and headed to the bathroom. Maybe I’d luck out and my gracious hosts would’ve left me a bottle of aspirin.
As with the eggs over easy, it just wasn’t happening.
After a quick lukewarm shower—damn military—I dressed in a pair of old jeans and a faded green pullover. I left the black at home. I wasn’t looking to impress anyone here, wasn’t trying to put on a show. As a matter of fact, the less impressive I was, the happier I would be. Hell, if I could get them to buy the fact I was a fake, maybe they’d put my ass on a bus and send me home. Allgood had me backed into a corner thanks to Glory; I had no choice but to cooperate. But there was cooperation, and then there was cooperation. So what if Charlie had passed on a few rumors? Like Hector had said, he hadn’t seen anything firsthand. So then, why couldn’t I be just a con man, one exceptionally lucky and talented con man? Staring at myself in the bathroom mirror as I pulled wet hair back into a ponytail, I gave a snort. What the hell. It couldn’t hurt to try.
When the rattle of a key in a lock came at the door, I was more than ready to go. A concrete shoe box wasn’t my idea of plush accommodations, and I wanted out. Now. There was a chance I could be going somewhere worse, but right then, it didn’t matter. I just wanted out. Sitting at the desk, I straddled the chair, propped an elbow on the back, and rested chin in newly gloved hand. I was casual, relaxed, cool … and the walls were not closing in. Just as they had not been closing in all night. As for the door, the door that was still stubbornly closed, it would open. Any time now. The lock made a grudging, reluctant sound. Yeah, any time. Any goddamn time. The metal slab finally swung open, which was nice. Yeah, very nice. Nice that I didn’t have to get up and give it a vicious kick.
“About time.” I grunted. “You have my paper and Belgian waffles?”
The man in the doorway ignored me, replaced the keys on his belt, and jerked his head toward the hall. “Let’s go.”
It wasn’t Hector, who obviously had better things to do with his time, but the guy was military all the same. And this time, I had a uniform to back it up. Army green. Blackmailing more victims before nine A.M. than most people blackmail all day. Wouldn’t their mamas be proud? Standing, I stretched and then swiveled to reach for my duffel bag. “Leave it,” came the order. With a low forehead, a heavily acne-scarred jaw of pure granite, and the flat black eyes of a cottonmouth, GI Joe made Hector look like a damn teddy bear.
“That mean I’ll be spending another night here in the Taj Mahal?” I asked, not bothering to hide my displeasure.
Cottonmouths aren’t like rattlers. There’s no spine-chilling sound of Satan’s castanets to warn you what’s coming your way. There’s only the bunch and flash of pure muscle before the pain of liquid lightning spreading through your screaming flesh. You might see the cold gleam of the corpse-white that lines its mouth before the fangs bury themselves in you, but often you don’t. It’s simply too goddamn fast. A human cottonmouth wasn’t much different. I’d started to turn away from my bag and back toward Hector’s replacement when the fist hit the side of my neck and jaw. It wasn’t a punch, although it had sucker written all over it. It was a clubbing blow, meant to take me down to the floor. And take me down it did.
I caught myself on my knees and managed to snag the chair with one hand. The combination of the two kept me upright, barely. I shook my head as black spots spread like oil across my vision. My left ear rang unpleasantly as the heat began to spread and my skin began to tingle and tighten. Suc
king in a breath, I waited for my vision to clear. As a replacement for caffeine, this was not the morning picker-upper I was looking for, but I had no one to blame but myself. Well, okay, I could blame the subhuman piece of shit in a uniform, too, but there was no getting around the fact that I should’ve been ready for him. Cane Lake had taught me never to turn my back on anyone, especially an employee of our beloved government. Thinking those lessons didn’t apply in the adult world was a mistake I couldn’t afford to make, not again.
“Let’s go, asshole,” was the bored echo.
I had to give him points; he was nothing if not consistent. Counting myself lucky that he hadn’t planted a boot in the small of my back while I was vulnerable, I climbed back to my feet. The dancing black blobs were dissipating almost as quickly as the burning of my face was building. That was going to be a nasty one. Cautiously, I pressed fingers to my jaw and worked it back and forth. Not broken, but chewing wasn’t going to be a friend of mine any time soon. Worse yet, the bastard was wearing gloves—Hector’s doing no doubt. Thanks to the sanctity of the almighty experiment, I hadn’t even gotten the quickest of readings off the punch.
“Good one.” I gave him a grin, hard and bright. It hurt, but damned if I’d let him see that. “You related to my step-daddy?”
I could see the coiling consideration behind the black glass of his dead gaze. Was it worth being a few minutes late to give me another mind-your-manners? In the end, we must have been on a tight schedule, because he took a handful of my shirt and shoved me toward the door. I let him. If Glory hadn’t been an issue, maybe I could’ve given him something to think about. I didn’t delude myself into thinking I could take him in a fair fight. He outweighed me by a good fifty pounds of pure muscle, not to mention that I hadn’t been trained by the Army to kill smart-ass red-haired psychics with my bare hands. Nope, a fair fight was out. But then again, who ever said I fought fair? GI Joe was on my list. It might take me a while to get around to him, but I would.
Grocery lists I lost; my shit list was forever.
Outside and trudging through ankle-deep soup, I ended up three buildings over with a headache, a jaw ache, and an utterly trashed pair of formerly black sneakers. Stained and heavy with good, honest red Georgia mud, they were promptly toed off when I passed through the door. By the time I reached Hector, I was one pissed-off prisoner in socked feet. Cooperate? Right, you son of a bitch. You think I’m psychic? Then you just fucking try to prove it.
The room was big and in some ways the very picture of a lecture hall, or so I imagined. I’d never gone to college. How many times had Boyd sneered at the thought of that? More than I could count. Ending up on my own, I could’ve gone. I had the money eventually, but by that time, I was in my mid-twenties, and those kids … Jesus, they seemed so young. So damn young, like a different species. Dump a sharp-toothed alley cat like me in the midst of those sleek, pampered pets, I couldn’t see it. Maybe once white trash wasn’t always white trash. But a freak is ever a freak, and freaks don’t play well with the normal kiddies. It didn’t make that much of a difference in the end. An undernourished sex life left plenty of time for reading. Who knew blue balls would make for a self-educated man?
Allgood and four technicians in white lab coats were conferring around a table loaded down with machinery, some of which looked oddly familiar. I couldn’t put my finger on what exactly had cranked up that uneasy feeling tickling the back of my brain, but something had. With my less-than-loyal and unmuzzled guard dog at my back, I moved down the shallow tile steps to the front row of seats and sat down. At least there was no fold-out desk or number two pencils. Without looking up, Hector dismissed my new best friend. Seconds later, he straightened, took me in, and ordered dispassionately, “Sergeant, stop.” Only a sergeant? I was surprised that his cream hadn’t risen a little further to the top. An amoral, fun-loving sadist like him should be a general by now.
Suddenly, Hector was looming over me with assessing eyes—Charlie’s eyes—studying my face. “What happened?”
Although the question was directed at me, Sergeant Sunshine decided to provide an answer. “He tried to make a run for it. I had to clock him one.”
“Is that so?” This time, Hector made sure I was involved in the conversation. “Mr. Eye, is that what happened?”
Snorting, I stretched my legs out and raised my eyebrows. “Oh, yeah,” I commented sardonically. “I was halfway over the fence before your boy caught me. I was like a frigging gazelle in that mud.”
“And the hell with your sister,” he said quietly.
I tapped a socked toe against the floor and responded with a yawn that automatically had my hand wanting to cradle my screaming jaw. I fisted it and held back. Never let anyone see a weakness: Cane Lake 101.
“That’s right. The hell with Glory.”
I didn’t bother to tell the truth; I didn’t bother to lie. Why? What would be the point? What did it matter? It wasn’t up to me who Allgood would believe. People typically made up their minds without any messy facts or, God forbid, the actual truth. Trying to tell my side of it wouldn’t accomplish much more than making my jaw hurt worse.
“I see.” Hector started up the stairs. “Borelli, come with me.”
Allgood wasn’t wearing a uniform, but he obviously ranked higher than the sergeant, as Borelli turned smartly and followed him. It was nearly twenty minutes before Hector returned, alone. He had a bottle of water with him and a small container of Tylenol. He handed them to me, sat in the seat next to mine, and asked, “Do you need medical attention?”
I popped the top on the Tylenol and gave him a curious sideways glance. “No. I’ve had worse. Sergeant Sunshine hits like a girl.”
He looked like he wanted to give a snort of his own, then he offered matter-of-factly, “Well, he’ll have time to grow into a woman now. He’s in lockup, and there his ass will stay until I say differently. I don’t tolerate abuse from my men.”
“Yeah, it’s only the upstanding blackmail you go for.” Ignoring the water, I dry-swallowed a nonrecommended dose of the painkiller. “When do we get this show on the road?”
“And he only punched you the once? What restraint.” He rubbed a hand over a suddenly tired face. Judging by the lines in his face, Hector had skipped more than last night’s sleep. He looked years older than his age, with a weariness that only comes from many sleepless nights. “It won’t be long. Leave your gloves on. I want the results of this experiment to be immaculate. We don’t have time for anything less, not now.” Allgood was wearing a lab coat, too, and I was beginning to think he came by it honestly.
“What are you, Allgood?” I demanded abruptly. “A scientist? A soldier? What the hell are you?”
“Why can’t I be both?” he responded with faint amusement. He stood, fished around in one coat pocket, and tossed me two pudding cups and a plastic spoon. “Here, breakfast. It’s all we have time for.” Then he added with mocking humor, “And it’s soft.”
So much for sympathy. I gave an internal grumble. My stomach echoed that grumble, and I peeled the plastic film from the top of the first cup and went to work. Chocolate caramel. Not bad. By the time I polished both of them off, my “peers” had arrived. In one big group, they must’ve been bused in. Bright-eyed and chipper, I’d have bet they all had more than a pudding cup for breakfast. And if I thought their eyes were bright, I only had to take a good look at their clothes. Jesus Christ. I slumped down lower in the chair.
My people, joy.
Yeah, I’d admit to playing to the crowd. It was part of the gig. But there was a line I drew. These guys played cat’s cradle with that line, and they did it while wearing velvet robes and rhinestone-studded turbans. Although, to be completely honest, there were a few who went in the other direction. They dressed like college professors or Matrix extras. Dark suits, turtlenecks, a discreet diamond-accented watch. Hell, one guy even had a TV show. It was local to New York, but I caught it occasionally on cable and laughed myself sick. New
York … Allgood had indeed cast his net far and wide. I wondered what story he’d told them—the same one he’d tried to spin in my office? A nice, safe, academic study of psychic phenomena? Didn’t those guys see the fence, the guards? I snorted into my empty pudding cup. Psychic, my ass. They didn’t even qualify as mildly observant.
“Jackson, sugar, is that you?”
I rolled my eyes upward to see a familiar face. “Madame,” I said easily. “I’m surprised to see you here. Funny how fast five to ten flies.”
The round face hardened as mascara-ringed eyes narrowed to venomous slits. “Always the sweet talker, aren’t you, Eye?”
I raised the unopened water bottle in her direction. “A toast. Accused but never convicted. You give us all something to shoot for, Joyce.”
Joyce Ann Tingle, otherwise known as Madame Maya Eilish, was self-proclaimed queen of Atlanta. Hell, she all but ruled the tristate area. She was as adept at dodging charges as she was at robbing her clients blind. Not content simply to deal the cards or gaze blankly into a crystal ball, she sold spells and curse removals. Two thousand was the going rate for the latter. Pretty good money to wave a chicken feather in your general direction. And then there was the rumor that she’d had a rival’s shop burned down—while he was in it. A canny businesswoman, indeed. A seared lump in the burn unit doesn’t provide much in the way of competition.
With a sweep of silk muumuu, she waddled off and left me to my devices. Here was hoping I had an untorched shop left to go home to … that is, if I survived this. The rest of the “psychics” milled about before finally settling into chairs scattered throughout the room. Before us, they were assembling cubicles; back to back, there were eight total. Apparently, this was going to be the assembly line of paranormal testing. In and out and moving on to the next self-made Nostradamus. And that was precisely how it went. Four at a time, the guinea pigs were shuffled down one at a time to individual carpeted boxes, where whitecoats waited for them in opposite cubicles. The shared wall prevented any visual cues to the psychics, and from the flat drone of the voices asking the questions, audio cues weren’t exactly flying fast and loose, either. With nothing but the backs of interchangeable inquisitioners to look at and unable to make out their low mutter, I let my lids fall and indulged in a short snooze. It didn’t seem long, but when a hand at my shoulder shook me awake, more than two-thirds of the clairvoyant crowd was gone. Lucky them.