“I should be home in time for breakfast. Any chance of blueberry pancakes?”
He works here, then goes home and eats blueberry pancakes?
I make myself read on. Polygraph — that’s the next entry. I’ve watched enough crime movies and episodes of Lie-dols on T.V. to know a polygraph is a lie-detector test. And according to the entries in the fields alongside, that’s what’s on my schedule for tomorrow morning. They must have scheduled it for after my interrogation to double-check the truth of what I’ve told them. There’s nothing else entered on my chart.
“Uh-huh, uh-huh. And what were the rug rats up to today?”
Chuckles from outside the door.
“Sure, put him on, I can chat for a minute.”
The doctor’s computer looks like a standard PC, so I take a chance and press ALT-TAB. It takes a conscious effort because my fingers feel clumsy, and they tingle with pins and needles. The tip of one is bloody from where the nail is half torn off, so I keep it extended, careful not to let it touch any of the keys. The screen toggles to another medical chart. My heart kicks in my chest like the recoil of a .5 caliber rifle when I read the detainee name at the top of this screen: Connor O’Riley. He is here.
I scan the screen rapidly, noting that the fields next to the interrogation and polygraph sub-headings are blank. So they haven’t started on him yet. I’m relieved, but also confused. What are they waiting for? Did they want to extract what they could from me first, and then use that to prize more out of him? Judging from the notes beside intake examination, Connor was in better shape when he was brought in than I was. More relief — he’s still okay, though he won’t be once they begin in earnest.
“Hey, buddy, you ought to be sound asleep, not keeping your momma up all the night. What’s up?” says the voice in the hallway.
I scroll down the screen — there’s only one more completed field. Next to the intervention Other, I read the entry: “Per psych consult, five-day pre-interrogations regimen, incl. restricted fluids and nutrition, administered at minimum levels required to sustain life. Plus sleep-deprivation, hourly disruptions. Med exams 8-hourly.”
I understand at once. They suspect he won’t crack easily, so before they begin interrogations — I didn’t miss that plural — they’re going to soften him up, weaken him with thirst and starve him into submission. I, apparently, was considered puny enough in mind, body and will to be interrogated immediately, but Mr. Smith will only be unleashed when Connor is already half-dead.
He’s so not okay.
“She did, huh? Well that sounds like fun.”
On the top of the form, there’s a small box, Main, lit up blue like a hyperlink. I click on it, trying to remember whether there was one on my chart. Another screen appears. It seems to be a record of all Connor’s details with a section for notes. I scan enough of these to discover that he has been a person of interest for some time. He hasn’t resided or been seen at his parents’ house for the last twenty-nine days, during which time the residence has been under intermittent physical surveillance. No calls from him have been picked up on the monitoring taps on their landline and cellphones. The house has been placed under round-the-clock surveillance since Connor was captured, pending possible contact by “other dissidents or the detainee’s brother, Quinn O’Riley”.
So Quinn did get away, then. Or, at least, there’s no mention here of him having been captured.
The most recent entry notes that Connor’s parents have been questioned — thank God there is no mention of Kerry — but no useful information has been forthcoming. Connor has been scheduled for “devitalization and enhanced interrogation”.
“Okay, buddy, Daddy’s got to get back to work now. And you’ve got to get back to sleep. See you later.” There are kissy noises from the hallway.
Shit.
Chapter 7
For collection
BACK. CTRL-HOME. ALT-TAB. CTRL-HOME.
My fingers fly to get the screen display back to where it was when the doctor was interrupted. There is a Main link on my screen, but there’s no time to check what’s written up in the notes for me — the doctor will walk in any second.
“No, that’s okay, you can just tell Mom I said goodbye, okay?”
I slip silently back around the desk.
“No, wait —”
I replace the drip stand in its original position and climb up onto the examination table.
“Yeah? He said you wanted to ask me something.” The voice is still in the hallway.
Damn. If I’d known he was still going to be on the line for a bit longer, I would have checked my notes. But I can’t risk going back now.
As I sit with my legs dangling off the edge of the table, breathing slowly to calm my racing heart, I notice that nearby — on top of a shoulder-high bookcase behind the head of the exam table — is a plastic tray labelled “for collection”. Inside is a thick padded envelope, stuck all over with warning labels: Fragile! Biohazard! Medical sample. Stuck square in the middle is a large waybill bearing the familiar logo of Swift-Secure, the same local drone-delivery shipping service used by Mom and my favorite online clothing store. Someone — the doc, probably — has filled in many of the boxes. The patient reference number is JJ20027 — me.
In the section for listing the contents, the box next to blood sample has been checked. He must have drawn some blood while I was still unconscious. To check I’m plague-free, or for some other reason? The boxes for sputum, urine and stool samples are mercifully blank.
My gaze moves down the label, and I hit pay dirt: the sender’s name and collection address are preprinted on the waybill. Here, in black-and-white type, are the details of where I currently am. Where Connor is. I read the name of the sender.
“I don’t know, ask him,” says Dr. Zachariah Green of Stapla, Inc. He’s still in the hallway.
I read the address on the waybill — floor, building number, street name, city zone — read it and memorize it.
Back in boot camp, we had to do daily exercises to train our skills in observation and memory. Sarge said we needed to be able to reconnoiter a territory and know at once what was out of place — what was new, or missing, or just didn’t fit. He taught us how to memorize the array of items spread out on the Kim’s Game tray, or the features of an operational arena, and how to remember them in order by making up a rhyme or story incorporating them. I do that now.
Zachariah, a green doctor (I close my eyes and picture a little emerald-green man wearing a stethoscope), stands outside office 303 (I let the green man trace the numbers on the door with his long, alien-like finger), inside building 16-001 (easy — my age, 9/11 year), on Auburn avenue (the street is a wavy line of red-brown hair), in the city’s South Downtown zone (I stamp the hair with a glittering SoDo). Wait, I’ve forgotten the organization’s name. I’m still trying to figure out a distinctive symbol for it, when the doctor speaks in the unmistakable tones of someone ending a conversation.
“Okay, see you later … Love you, too, honey.”
There’s just time to stretch back out on the bed before the doc returns, closing the door behind him. I lie still and stare glassily at the ceiling, trying to burn the green doctor scene into my memory.
“Ah, you’re awake. How are you feeling?”
I turn my head to study him. The doctor is short and pot-bellied, and he has a surgical mask hanging around his neck. As he walks towards me, he lifts this into place over his nose and mouth. Is this for my benefit — to preserve the myth of airborne transmission of the rat fever virus? Or for his, so his features are mostly disguised?
“Not good. I hurt all over,” I say hoarsely. My throat is raw from all the screaming. “From the torture,” I add pointedly.
“I think I can help you with the pain,” he says, ignoring the accusation in my eyes and words.
He gets a tiny glass vial from the cabinet, draws up the clear liquid into a syringe, and injects it into the line in the crook of my arm. He s
hines a light into each eye, takes my temperature with an infrared thermometer, and measures my blood pressure with an electronic cuff which inflates around my upper arm, squeezes tight and then deflates. A silicon clamp fitted on one finger feeds more information into a connected monitor. By the time it’s captured my vital statistics, the pain is just beginning to ease.
“I need the restroom. Badly.”
“A rehydration drip will do that to you,” he says, removing the IV needle from my arm.
“And can I shower? I smell.”
I smell rank. Sour sweat and blood and vomit. And the taste in my mouth is like the rancid smell made solid.
“No shower, I’m afraid.”
He helps me sit up and slide off the bed, then steadies me with a hand under my elbow as I sway, fighting a wave of dizziness. After a moment, the floor seems steady and I walk gingerly across the office to the bathroom. My knee gives a stab of pain on every step.
“But there’s a basin in there, and you can wash up. I keep some toiletries on the shelf, for when I work late. You can use them to freshen up if you like.” He sounds … kind.
The bathroom is tiny, and everything — the toilet, the basin, the small mirror, soap-dispenser and shelf bolted to the wall — is made of unbreakable stainless steel. The door closes, but there’s no latch on the inside. After I’ve used the toilet, I wash my hands, neck and face with the liquid soap and warm water. The cuts and burns sting, and the water runs pink with blood. The blue eyes in the mirror stare back at me from a bruised and puffy face. I look away, focusing instead on the shelf, where a stack of paper towels and a small assortment of toiletries are neatly laid out. I unzip my dress and let it fall around my waist so that I can clean the crusty rivulets of dried blood off my chest with a clutch of wet, soapy paper towels. My eye falls on the earring around my bra strap. My eyes prick with tears. I must have gotten soap into them.
The tops of both arms sting sharply. Twisting from side to side, I see a pair of adhesive wound dressings covering the spots where the shock-electrodes were applied the longest. I don’t want to see what it looks like underneath.
While I scrub under my arms with the paper towels, trying to clean away that acrid odor of fear and adrenalin, I check the toiletries on the high shelf. A toothbrush and whitening toothpaste, dental floss, antiseptic mouthwash and breath-freshening mints — the doc is obsessed with oral hygiene — dry-stick antiperspirant which promises strong cover for twenty-four hours, a comb, a small electric shaver, an economy-sized pump-action bottle of hand sanitizer, and a box of Kleenex. Nothing with the potential to be used as a weapon.
It hurts to lift my arms, but I snag the toothpaste tube, squeeze a worm of white paste onto my finger and give my teeth a thorough rubbing. I rinse with the mouthwash, hissing against the pain when the antiseptic hits the spots where I’ve bitten my cheeks and lips, then drink as much water as I can, just in case they schedule a “devitalization” regime for me, too. I’m tempted by the comb, but my reflection shows me that my long, blond hair is snarled through with knots and caked with blood. It will have to wait until I can shower. I apply the antiperspirant liberally even though it smells disgusting — like toilet disinfectant — and I’m just zipping my dress back up when there’s a knock at the door.
“All right in there?” the doctor asks.
“Almost done.”
My hand is reaching for the doorknob when my head turns, as if by itself, back to the shelf. What is it? What does my brain want me to register? My gaze fixes on the dry-stick antiperspirant.
Antiperspirant. Strong 24-hour cover.
Why has my brain fixed my eyes on this? Think, Jinxy. What does an antiperspirant do? It stops you sweating. And? So?
Then I gasp as an image pops into my head of a suspect undergoing a polygraph. Frantically I try to recall every movie or T.V. scene I’ve ever watched that shows a lie-detector test in action. Images flash through my mind. An operator asking questions. A machine with a bank of needles tracing graphs on rolls of paper. Wires connecting the machine to the person being questioned, to sensors in bands around their fingers, arms, chests. And foreheads? Sensors which measure their pulse, their rate of breathing, their blood pressure, and — I’m sure of it! — how much they’re sweating.
“Miss James?”
“Coming!”
I snatch the dry-stick and rub it across the backs of my hands and all over my palms, up and down and between my fingers from tip to base, top and bottom. For good measure, I apply it to my forehead and face, blending the white streaks into my skin with my fingertips. In the mirror, I see the door opening, and I thrust the antiperspirant stick under the neckline of my dress so that I’m applying it in the more usual places when the doc sees me.
“Sorry,” I say guiltily, replacing the lid on the dry stick and returning it to the shelf. “Hope you don’t mind?”
“We’re finished up here. It’s time for you to go to your cell.”
He leads me out of the room into the hallway, where two guards are waiting to escort me. Good thing I didn’t try to make a run for it earlier. One of the guards, a cranky-looking woman, makes me face the wall, spread my legs and stretch my arms away from my body. While I’m splayed out like a starfish, she pats down every square inch of me, checking that I haven’t got something from the doctor’s rooms concealed on my person. I figure they probably patted me down somewhere between ASTA and here, too. The thought of being touched all over, while I was unconscious, creeps me out.
As we walk down the hall, one guard ahead of me and one behind, I wring my hands like I’m frantic with worry. I am frantic with worry, but I’m also making sure the antiperspirant covers every last bit of skin, without any telltale white streaks.
This time I don’t try to memorize the route. My brain has another sequence of words and images on auto-repeat.
Dr. Zachariah Green, office 303, 16-001, Auburn, Sodo.
Chapter 8
Cat’s eyes
“Wake up.” A booted toe shoves roughly against my hip. “I’ll be back in five minutes for you.”
The door slams and locks, and I look around in the suddenly bright light, trying to blink away the nightmarish images still chasing each other across the screen of my mind. I’m still in the small, windowless cell, lying under a worn blanket on a thin mattress on the ground. When they dumped me in here last night, I allowed myself to splinter into pieces and sob out my horror at everything that’s happened. Sometime during the bawling, I must have fallen asleep.
On the floor next to me are a Styrofoam cup of water and a wrapped power bar. I sit up, wincing. My head feels swollen and heavy, and every muscle in my body is aching and stiff. I feel like I’ve been run over by a steamroller.
I grab the cup with unsteady hands and drink the water greedily. I’m so thirsty, I could drink a gallon, but while there’s a small, metal toilet in one corner of the cell, there’s no basin or tap. I don’t feel much like eating, especially when I remember that Connor is being denied food somewhere nearby, but I force myself to eat the Blueberry-Banana flavored protein bar, wincing with every swallow as the food scrapes my sore throat.
Two guards, different from the ones from last night, escort me to the room where my polygraph will be conducted. One comes into the room and stands guard behind my chair. The other must be waiting outside.
The polygraph operator’s eyes have yellow irises with black, vertical pupil slits, and impossibly long eyelashes which sweep up and outwards. I know it’s just contact lenses and false lashes — one of the ways people accentuate their appearance in these days of masked faces — but the effect of her catlike gaze is unnerving.
She sticks two wireless electrodes onto the palm of my left hand, another around its middle finger and one on each temple. When I try to rub away the twitching tic in my left eye, the operator moves my hand back to my lap. Then she straps a band around my chest and a blood pressure cuff around my upper arm. The restraints feel too much like yesterd
ay, and for a moment I have to fight my body’s intense urge to flee.
The operator sits facing a computer screen where I’m guessing graphs and monitors and all kinds of measures are displayed digitally, because there is no wavering needle on an unspooling roll of graph paper. Blinking her feline eyes slowly, she spends ages telling me how super-accurate her test is at detecting deceit and how I had best tell the absolute truth on everything. Or else.
I figure she’s trying to scare me. This test may be more hi-tech than anything I’ve seen on T.V., but surely the basic principles are the same? And I’ve watched enough polygraph scenes on the small screen to know that they can be beaten. Either I have to be extremely anxious throughout, overreacting to every question so that my ‘guilty’ lie responses are masked, or I have to stay completely calm throughout.
Well, Sarge did once call me an ice-maiden.
Cat-eyes starts by asking me a bunch of yes-no questions that have nothing to do with Quinn or the rebels or yesterday’s events. Is my name Jinx Emma James? (Yes.) Is today the seventh of August? (Yes, at least I think so.) Am I sixteen years old? (Yes.) Am I a surveillance specialist cadet at ASTA? (No.) Do I have one brother called Robin? (Yes.) Is my father still alive? (No.) She pauses for a few seconds between each question, and marks each answer on her screen with a sensor pen.
Then the questions get more serious.
“Have you ever lied to anyone?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Just answer yes or no, please. Have you ever lied to anyone?”
“Yes.”
“Have you ever killed anything?”
“Yes.” Spiders in the bath. Those damn rats. A rabid coyote.
“Have you ever killed anyone?”
“No.”
Is she trying to get a reading on how my body reacts when I tell the truth and when I lie so she can compare my responses to the trickier questions which lie ahead? Maybe there’s a third way to pass this test — I can mess with her system a little by tossing her a few lies and allowing myself to get a bit upset about them. Then when I stay calm on the answers that I am lying on, it will look like I’m telling the truth.
The Recoil Trilogy 3 Book Boxed Set: Including Recoil, Refuse and Rebel Page 25