by IGMS
She wasn't the head of the research team but, rather, a sort of second lieutenant. She reported to a husky man in his mid-fifties named Dr. Baylor, one of the two physicists who ran the program. Drogan got the feeling she was excited about the research but not always pleased with Baylor. Try as he might, Drogan could never draw her out about the discomfort.
She would divert his attempts by asking him questions about his childhood, about growing up the son of an auto mechanic and a baker, both dead now the last ten years, of alcohol and illness. About where he went to school, about what he'd done for a living. Even about Lainie and Sean's deaths. During that conversation, talking about Sean's birth, he looked at her only once.
In that one glance, he saw something in her eyes flicker briefly. It wasn't fear. She had pretty impressive composure around him, all things considered. Was it pity? Sympathy? He wondered. Maybe, he hoped, it was compassion.
Louisa was different with him after that. She wasn't as formal or even uncomfortable with him. Every now and then, she'd bring coffee. As the days went by, he noticed little imperfections: a tiny scar by the corner of her mouth, a few gray hairs tucked behind one ear, a mole on her neck where the collar met her jawline. He learned that she could be funny. She had a beagle at home named Max. Most of the jewelry she wore had been her grandmother's.
"You remind me," she told him once when he made her laugh, "of my friend Jorge." He'd never seen her smile quite that way before, a secret, intimate smile that gave him shivers. And then she thought better of continuing. Drogan regretted it. That smile: he wanted to know more.
He'd forgotten what the company of a woman could be like. Not what sex and sweat smelled like, but rather, simple companionable conversation. It had been a long time.
Three weeks after they arrived, two corrections officers, Warden Chapelle, and a lawyer came for Villanova. Two technicians and Dr. Ferrara accompanied them.
Villanova had spent the previous hour with a chaplain. Drogan, only a wall away on his shelf bed in the square of pale light shed by an overcast sky, had fled into his thoughts to avoid listening to Villanova's confession and prayers. He tried to remember all the words to "American Pie," tried to conjure the names of the seven dwarves, anything not to hear Villanova's quiet, shuddering whispers.
This was why the condemned usually spent their last three days in a separate facility, he understood: to spend their fear and their grief in the privacy of deaf, silent walls.
The only difference between this and going to the chair, Drogan thought.
Unless, of course, some part of you survived.
When Villanova came out of his cage, he asked for a moment, then turned to Drogan's cell.
"Drogan," he said. Drogan looked up, got up and went to the bars. Villanova put his thin, trembling hand through. Drogan took it and they shook. Villanova's brown skin was cold, dry.
"Vaya con Dios," Villanova said. His dark eyes were troubled; Drogan understood that much.
"Good luck," Drogan answered.
For a moment, Villanova held on. Drogan shook hands one more time. He had no other words. Villanova squeezed his hand and let go.
Ferrara shot Drogan a glance he couldn't read, then followed the group out.
Drogan sat down on his cot again and took out his half dollar. Now he'd wait.
Three hours later, the hall filled. Lab-coated men rushed back and forth between laboratories, their discussions hushed and businesslike. Ferrara walked by, ashen-faced, one hand at the cross on the chain around her neck, and kept walking.
He didn't see her for three days after that. In the interim, he couldn't shake the image of Villanova's expression when they'd taken him. Drogan had never seen him look like that before, wide-eyed, unsure, and very, very young.
When Ferrara did turn up, she was her usual, professional self, but now distant, less casual. She informed him that the testing would resume, and that he'd be taken to the teleporter in a little less than two weeks.
She turned to go. He called her back.
"What happened to Villanova?" he asked. Her expression clouded.
"He didn't make it," she said. "It was bad."
Drogan's heart skipped a beat; it hurt. "What do you mean, it was bad?"
"It was . . . bad. I have to go." And she left.
It was the first time, he realized, that she hadn't given him a straight answer.
The interviews ceased.
As the days went by, he saw the same kind of activity he'd seen before Villanova's test, lots of people back and forth in the hallways. But he saw something new. Occasionally, three men in military uniforms each with a stack of ribbons on their chests, accompanied Baylor through the halls. Baylor looked tense in the company of these men, his gait quicker, his motions clipped. Military. Interesting.
There was something more to all this.
That afternoon when his orderly brought him lunch, he asked to see Dr. Ferrara.
When she didn't come, he asked again at dinner.
He got no answer that day. Or the next.
Drogan didn't know what time it was when he heard footsteps in the hallway. It was dark, late. He hadn't slept. He had figured out, however, how many cinder blocks made up walls of his cell. He'd followed the transit of the half moon across his window. When the footsteps stopped in front of his cell, he turned over and looked through the bars.
It was Dr. Ferrara.
"Hi," he said.
She stood there in her lab coat, dark slacks and shoes, her hands in her pockets, just as if it were the middle of the day. Except that his clock said 2 a.m. It was the first time he'd seen her in five days. She looked tired.
"They've got you working late," he said.
"I was told you asked for me." She kept her voice neutral and kept her distance from the bars. Drogan recognized her deliberate choices. He sat up, then stood and went to the bars himself. He noticed movement in one pocket, as if she were balling her fist. She was nervous, he realized. He didn't like it.
"It could have waited until morning." He kept his tone gentle. "If you've been working late, you should go home."
"What can I do for you?" With a flick of her head, she shook a strand of hair off of her forehead.
All business. Okay then.
"I've been seeing military men march Baylor around like he's a convict." Ferrara's face remained neutral. She'd been practicing. "This technology isn't for commercial use, is it?"
She didn't answer. Drogan decided to go on.
"You can't say anything, can you, because it's classified, right? Even though I signed a Non-Disclosure Agreement?"
Ferrara shifted on her feet, raised her chin a bit. Said nothing.
"So let me guess: TransLumina's not worried about selling this to the public. They're worried about selling it to the military. The only people who will be stepping into the teleportation capsules will be ordered to do it."
She lowered her head a fraction. Was that a nod? He thought so. Her silence wasn't about keeping a professional distance, he understood. It was about who was listening. Of course, he didn't have anything to lose.
"It gives a whole new meaning to dying in the line of duty," he said a little more quietly. "Only now our boys can do it over and over again."
"There's a great deal of good that could come out of this," she said. She didn't say it with conviction.
"Fair enough."
Her gold cross picked up the light from the overhead lamps. She wasn't just concerned about the military, he suddenly realized. He'd never seen her without the cross. She had spiritual issues with this whole business.
He paused to consider his next words. He didn't want to push her away, didn't want to add to her obvious discomfort. In the end, all he could say was, "It's good to know the truth."
Neither of them said anything for a moment. Then Ferrara took half a step back. "Good night, then."
She turned and walked away.
"Good night," Drogan said, too softly for her to hear down
the hall.
Three days later, Chapelle and Drogan's lawyer, Harville, came for a meeting with him. They were accompanied by two guards and Dr. Ferrara, to discuss whether or not he wanted a chaplain and who, if anyone, he wanted as a witness. He asked for Ferrara, but never got an answer.
But the day before he was to go, she came by with two cups of coffee and sat close to the bars. When she gave him his cup, he thought she purposely touched his hand. This was a different Ferrara than the one he'd seen several nights before. She'd made a choice of some kind, maybe several. One was to let down the wall she'd had up. He couldn't figure out the others yet.
"Come to spend a few minutes with the lab rat?" he ventured. It was a lame joke and it landed like one. Briefly she looked as though she were going to bolt. "You okay?" he asked, trying to rescue the moment.
"I . . . just needed a break. We've been at it for hours in there."
"How's it looking?" he asked.
She hesitated, then said, "Good. Good." Sipped her coffee.
"You're a lousy liar," Drogan said.
She took a breath to speak, paused, exhaled and started again. Looked at him. Whatever she was going to say died on her lips.
Instead, she looked at his half dollar on the small cabinet next to his bed.
"I've been wanting to ask you about that." She motioned to the coin. "You never stop playing with it."
Drogan put down the coffee, picked up the coin, held it up. It was a bicentennial half dollar. John F. Kennedy's profile showed on one side; a straight-lined rendering of Independence Hall, worn with years of fingering, showed on the other. Now, most of the detail in Kennedy's hair had been rubbed flat. Independence Hall was softer-edged and windowless.
"It was a gift from my father," Drogan said. He handed it to Ferrara so she could examine it more closely. "He gave it to me when I turned ten."
"That's sweet," she said with a smile, turning it over in her hands. "And you still have it." She sounded surprised.
Drogan frowned. "I don't understand."
"I thought con . . . people weren't allowed to keep personal items when they went to prison."
"Not when they enter; the stuff is stored until your release, assuming you get out. This was in a safe deposit box with some other things my wife and I put away. I asked Harville to get it for me after my sentencing."
She handed the coin back to him. "Why keep this and not something else? I mean, most kids would have spent it right away."
Drogan clutched the coin tightly. Started turning it over and over while he spoke.
"My dad wanted to teach me about coin collecting. It didn't stick, but . . ." And Drogan's throat tightened up. He hadn't thought about his father in a long time. The reaction frightened him. He blinked a couple of times to relieve the pressure behind his eyes. "It was good time we had," he said. "We used to go to coin shows together. A good time." He picked up his coffee and sipped.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I shouldn't have asked."
"No, it's all right." He put the coin down on the table. Looked up at her brown eyes, eyes like Sean's. "I was going to give it to my son when he turned ten."
He picked up the coin again. Ran his thumb over the image of Independence Hall. What would his duplicate remember if he made it through? And would he himself have to face Sean in the darkness of his own journey? Suddenly death lost its appeal. For a moment, he wanted the one who came after to wake up a clean slate like the chimp Louisa had spoken of, not having to worry about any of it. But then he wouldn't remember even Dr. Ferrara.
He held the coin out to her.
"Take it," he said. "I'd like you to have it."
Hey eyebrows rose.
"I couldn't," she said.
Drogan felt a disappointment he hadn't expected.
"Then keep it for me until . . . after." He took her hand -- soft and cool -- and laid the coin on her palm. "Give me . . . him something to look forward to."
She closed her fingers over the half dollar. Looked up at him with a smile.
"It's a deal," she said, blinking rapidly, and put the coin in the pocket of her lab coat. "You can still get out of this, you know." Her voice was a little husky. "It's in the paperwork you signed. There would be no penalty."
Drogan squinted at her as she sipped her coffee again. It wasn't what he'd expected and he wasn't sure how to take it.
"It wouldn't matter. I go this way, or I go by injection somewhere down the line."
She put the coffee down, fingered the cross she wore at her neck. She seemed elsewhere.
"Louisa?" he said, and surprised himself by it.
Surprised her, too. She shook her head as if awakened from sleep, glanced at him as if she hoped he hadn't noticed.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I keep thinking about what happens . . . after."
"I don't follow."
"It's nothing. My Catholic upbringing gets the better of me sometimes." She smiled absently, sipped her coffee again.
"Worried I'm going to Hell?" Drogan asked, and it came out lighter than he meant it to. He didn't want to seem cavalier about it if she took it seriously.
She didn't answer. Her mouth was a straight line, her lips tense.
He watched the ripples in his coffee. "If it comes to that, I've been there. I'm ready for it." His voice tripped on the words, his throat tight.
It occurred to him that she was thinking about all the soldiers who would face this as well. If she was a true believer, then from her perspective they'd all be facing heaven or hell whether they were ready to or not. He'd never believed in God, but he sympathized with Louisa.
What she said was, "You would have more time."
More time to repent? He wondered. If there was a God, Drogan figured he'd already had all the consideration he was due.
"But it's the kind of time I'd have that matters," he finally said. He stopped to choose his words carefully. "This way, when I go, my last days will have had something worthwhile about them. I got a last few days in a clean room with some quiet. I got to see some trees. I got to . . . I had good company. I'll take that. It's enough."
She looked at the window a long time while they sat in silence. Drogan didn't know what she was thinking, but he was sure she was fighting with herself about something. As he watched her, her eyes glittered, but she never shed a tear.
"Okay then," she finally said, dry-eyed and clear.
The capsule at one end of the isolation room looked a little like a white tanning bed with closed ends. Six feet away, another, larger capsule hummed. The air conditioning was on full blast giving the air a metallic smell. Goosebumps rose on Drogan's skin beneath the bathrobe they'd given him to wear after his final strip search. His stomach growled. He hadn't eaten in two days except for clear broths and the God-awful chemical they'd made him drink to clear his system.
The technician and the two prison guards behind him inched him forward.
A wide window spanned the wall to his right through which he could see the team hustling back and forth or poring over controls. Dr. Ferrara, a pen stuck behind one ear, stood consulting shoulder to shoulder over a clipboard with Dr. Baylor. They were almost of a height, with Baylor at a slight advantage. Another, smaller window -- one-way glass -- was at the opposite end of the room; Drogan knew that government witnesses were there. A combination experiment and execution.
The technician beside Drogan said, "Are you ready?"
Drogan shook himself. "Uh, yeah." Glanced at the tech, then back at Ferrara. She peeked up from her work. What was that expression in her eyes before she looked away? Drogan wasn't sure.
"I'll need your robe."
"Oh, right." He slipped out of the robe and handed it to the man, then sat down on the edge of the capsule. The metal was cold on his butt, chilling him. He slipped his feet out of his slippers, hoisted his legs onto the platform and settled himself into position. Though he'd lain in the capsule before as part of the preparation, somehow now the top of the capsule seemed closer, cla
ustrophobic.
He turned his head to one side so he could look out one more time. Ferrara stood over a console glancing back and forth at things Drogan couldn't see. She glanced up at him again. Then away.
"Ready? We need to close up the capsule," the technician said.
Drogan laid his head back, looked up at the glass pane above him. Through the glass he could see the scanner mounted on its track. He suddenly felt like a document laid on the glass of a Xerox machine, ready to be copied.
His stomach tightened. He took a deep breath. Exhaled with a shudder.
"Are you ready, Mr. Drogan?" the tech repeated.
"Yeah," he said. "Close it up."
The tech pulled down the retractable side of the capsule, walling Drogan in.
"Can you hear me, Mr. Drogan?" Dr. Ferrara on the intercom.
"Yes." His throat was so tight it was hard to speak. "Louisa," he said. "Call me Jake, would you please?"
There was a pause. Drogan looked through the glass above at the scanner, a long, thin tube. He knew the kind of light it would emit, had felt it warm up over him before in a dry run three days prior.
"Jake," Dr. Ferrara said. "We're starting the sequence now. Breathe normally. Relax."
Drogan took a deep breath, held it a moment. Exhaled. The low hum of the capsule intensified. This was it.
The moment before the bomb. The gunmetal in his mouth.
He closed his eyes. His abdomen trembled, his heart beat skipped. You can still get out of this, she'd said. He took another deep, shuddering breath.
The heat built above him. The buzz and hum of the unit rose. The darkness behind his eyelids went red with the light shining through. It would be more time.
In his mind's eye, he saw Sean's grin. Lainie's red curls in the wind. He saw pink spring tulips and bright yellow daffodils. Tyler's denim-clad arm around Lainie's waist. Sean. Burning.
Let it end.
And then he saw electric green maple trees and Louisa Ferrara.