Metro

by Stephen Romano

  She gets up and starts after the girl, then stops herself.

  Stands there.

  “Are you worried about her?” Darian says.

  “What’s the special room?”

  “It’s for special children.”

  “I don’t like the sound of that either.”

  “Of course you don’t. You’re smart.”

  He comes over to a desk she never noticed before and motions to a chair across from his. There’s a tray of food on the table she also never noticed. Tuna sandwich. Steamed broccoli. Mashed potatoes and a dish of green Jell-O.

  “Shall we talk about it, Jollie? Now that we are alone?”

  He sits, and she sits too.

  “Please eat something,” he says.

  She sets the Coke can next to the tray, folds her hands in front of him, and says: “This place is evil.”

  And he says: “Of course it is.”

  They stare at each other for a very long time before she finally breaks down and cracks open the Coke. Drinks deeply. It’s cold and sweet. It seems to reenergize her whole body, while reminding her how starved she is. Darian sits across from her and peels a stick of gum as she pounces on the sandwich next. He doesn’t say another word to her as she eats. The food gives her strength, doing a happy rumble in her stomach. She breathes easier now, though she’s still very cold.

  She looks Darian Stanwell right in his eye.

  His sharp, sweet breath floats back to her. She can tell he uses that to break people. The off-putting fruity scent of gum, which matches his weird crooked smile.

  She doesn’t let it distract her.

  She is ready.

  11

  darian

  The first interview is a revelation.

  It goes like this:

  “You’re the surgeon, aren’t you? The one I heard about.”

  “Very good.”

  “What are you going to do to me?”

  “That depends.”

  “On what?”

  “On a lot of things.”

  “That’s not an answer.”

  “Of course it’s an answer. It’s just not the one you wanted. It’s never the answer anyone wants, really.”

  “So why give it? Why not just talk straight?”

  “There’s no such thing as straight.”

  “Is that your philosophy?”

  “Sometimes, Jollie. Other times, we have to make it up as we go. Such as in places like this one. You came to us at a very interesting time. We have a full house right now.”

  “What are you doing to these kids?”

  “Helping them along.”

  “I bet.”

  “But the helping is different for everyone. They each take it and they make what they will. So this business between you and I can be hard or easy. If it’s hard, it will be an adventure, just as much as easy will be an adventure. Do you understand?”

  “You still haven’t really answered my question.”

  “Which was what exactly?”

  “What are you doing to these kids?”

  “I did answer that. It just wasn’t the answer you wanted.”

  “I can smell it on you . . . whatever’s going on in this house . . . you people are monsters.”

  “Yes. Yes we are.”

  “You sell these kids, don’t you? You keep them here and you break them and you sell them to the highest bidder.”

  “The bids aren’t always high. We deal quality merchandise to the right people, at the right price. It’s just better business that way. Same with the drug trade. If you get too greedy, the economics of it all just fall to hell.”

  “So this is a daycare center for human traffic.”

  “In a way. There’s always at least one special child in my house. I find it so hard to let go of so many of them. Are these the answers you wanted? Am I being honest enough for you?”

  “You talk like a schoolteacher. Your voice is rather frightening.”

  “Nobody ever said that to me before. Thank you.”

  “You’re proud of being scary?”

  “Of course. I’m a scary guy. You see, most monsters live in a lot of denial. Like alcoholics. ‘I drink because I choose to’ and all that. The real truth is that none of us have a chance against our programming, and we have to live with it. You can give up drinking for a hundred years and still be a slave to your basest desires. So we should be proud of it. We should embrace it. The people around you can tell the difference between a phony and the real deal every time. They’re not scared of a phony. And being scary is a big part of what I do.”

  “You scare these kids into obeying you. You kidnap them and you take them to a special room and you—”

  “Oh please, Jollie. You make us sound like we’re living in some mature-rated comic book. We don’t do anything to these kids that they didn’t deserve in the first place.”

  “Every pervert on earth says that.”

  “But we’re not perverts. We are the minsters of love and freedom.”

  “I’m sure you are.”

  “Would you like to know what poor little Gretchen Underhill was up to before she was brought here two weeks ago? She was eating dirt out of a trash can in El Paso. Starving and homeless, filled with anger.”

  “And you brought here so she could have a family?”

  “Not exactly. We brought her here to show her love and freedom. The family part comes later.”

  “You people make me sick.”

  “Why? There’s all kinds of family, Jollie. Do you think that just because these orphans were not scooped up by some cold child-protective agency or adopted by a cruel foster family that they’d be any less screwed up than they are here?”

  “You’re torturing these kids. You’re making them fear you.”

  “Every child fears their father, Jollie. You should know that.”

  “I never even knew my father.”

  “My point exactly.”

  “So I fear what I don’t know? I’m an angry orphan, just like these kids? Is that why you really brought me here?”

  “No. I would like that . . . but no.”

  “Then let’s get on with it.”

  “Not yet. This is fascinating.”

  “Not to me.”

  “Yes, it is, Jollie. You’re absolutely fascinated by me. You want to know more about what I do. You want to know what’s happening to poor little Gretchen in the special room. You are fascinated and disgusted. Drawn like a fly into a web, lulled by the sound of my voice. And I don’t blame you. I’ve been where you are.”

  “Have you?”

  “If I hadn’t, you wouldn’t be so fascinated with me.”

  “So why the cartoons? What are you teaching these kids exactly before you turn them out to be slaves or whatever?”

  “They’re not slaves. They’re people. And the cartoons themselves are only half the point. We show them those images, but not the sound. It exposes a certain lie taught to children when they are very young. They taught us all, didn’t they? We sat and watched the rabbit get away with his malicious antics and they made us listen to his vile laughter, without even understanding why. We were programed at birth, every single one of us. But if we don’t hear the sound . . . if we choose to see these things for what they really are beneath the surface . . . then we become enlightened in a way most children will never ever be as adults. That’s why we only show them cartoons when they’ve been bad. When they’ve disobeyed us.”

  “And then you show them the special room.”

  “No. That happens to just a special few of them, eventually. Not everyone can reach the promised land. Some people are just without hope.”

  “What are they doing to her in there?”

  “Finding hope, Jollie. Finding hope.
”

  “You . . . people are sick . . .”

  “Everyone is sick. Some of us just live in a lot less denial.”

  “. . . Christ . . . Breakfast Club quotes . . .”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You people . . . you monsters . . .”

  “It’s okay, Jollie. I understand your revulsion. It’s only natural. But one day you’ll see the truth of what I’m saying. And it will change your life then, as surely as it sickens you now. Women are so much harder to reach with these universal truths. They tease cruelly, promoting themselves as the givers of all life . . . but it’s a lie you only tell yourselves so you can live with all that pain your bodies make you feel.”

  “Pig.”

  “Typical reaction. But I’m not surprised. You are, after all, a woman.”

  “You prefer men, don’t you?”

  “Of course I do, Jollie. Women are terrible creatures.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “I was hoping you’d tell me. After all, aren’t you supposed to be the expert profiler?”

  “We just met. I don’t know anything about you.”

  “But you do, Jollie. You’ve been sizing me up for the last five minutes. Cataloging every detail of this house. You’re building a file on us in your head, fact by fact. I can see you doing it.”

  “That’s pretty perceptive.”

  “So are you.”

  “Okay . . . your name is Darian and you’re a professional surgeon. You also work for a bigger organization full of perverts and drug dealers, because that’s what guys like you are wired up to do once they decide their chosen field is boring. It would probably be easy to say you hate women because you’re into men or whatever, which is also hard wiring from birth . . . but that wouldn’t exactly be the truth.”

  “Of course it wouldn’t. Please go on.”

  “I figure it’s something in your childhood. Something to do with that scar on your face maybe? You want it there to remind you too. You could get rid of it but you won’t. It could have been a woman who did it. But that’s not why you hate women. Your father told you to, and he probably died pretty early on, leaving you with a lot of pain and confusion. And then there’s your brother, right? After your father died, it was the two of you versus the world . . . and if I’m right about how everything went down recently, the sudden shock and lingering pain of losing your brother isolates you even worse and makes your hatred even stronger.”

  “Very, very perceptive.”

  “And now that I really think about it . . . now that I really look at you . . . the scar on your face was made by a woman. But not by a human woman. The damage is too jagged and savage to have been done by a human, and you never would have let a human get that close to you with a knife. So it was a cat, probably. Some sleek female predator, somewhere in the wilds, maybe protecting her young. You threw yourself into that. You fought her barehanded. Barely came back alive. It’s why you’re so calm isn’t it? You went through a trial by fire, and it makes you believe you are better and stronger than anyone else on this earth.”

  “I was thirty then. On a trip through Africa to reboot myself. The animal’s name was Rashid. I named her before I killed her. You are very, very, very perceptive, Jollie.”

  “You’re smiling though. This amuses you, doesn’t it?”

  “Of course it does.”

  “But I’m also right. And I know something else too. Something I bet even your brother never knew. I just figured it out.”

  “Oh really?”

  “Really, Darian. I’ll tell you all about it.”

  “Please do.”

  “You work for METRO, don’t you?”

  • • •

  Darian’s brow creases.

  He stops chewing his gum for a second, rumples his nose like someone really confused.

  Jollie just stares at him intently.

  • • •

  The second interview is devastating.

  It goes like this:

  “Jollie, you’ll have to forgive the unhip nature of a relatively old man . . . but METRO? I’m fairly certain you’re not referring to the public transportation system in Austin.”

  “Oh, please.”

  “And . . . what do children have to do with something called METRO, I wonder?”

  “This is the first way station for recruits, isn’t it? You probably even train some of them here. Mark told me all about it. The special room is where you take the kids to be educated. You do it here, behind locked doors, without anyone in the rest of your world knowing about it. Except maybe a few people. You report to the dictator, who’s also a mole inside the Monster Squad. Maybe Razzle Schaeffer or Eddie Darling. You do it all under the radar of everything. And right now, your bosses are telling you to bring us all in. Six million in pure uncut ecstasy, for the good of the company. They’ve instructed you to do whatever it takes to secure the package. And in the end . . . we all start shooting at each other, because none of you knows who the other one really is.”

  “This is fascinating. But you still haven’t told me what METRO is.”

  “You know exactly what it is.”

  “Some secret organization, I’m guessing? And I’m a secret agent working for them, yes? Do you really think if there was so much at stake, I would just admit all that to you right now?”

  “Yes. Because it doesn’t matter. When you’re done with me, you’ll kill me, just like they were going to back there at the house. And I’ll be dead, and no one will ever know what I know.”

  “That only happens in movies. In the real world, the evil genius never explains his master stroke before he kills the bad guy. Even if he does talk too much.”

  “But you’re not an evil genius. You’re an employee.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “Never been more sure of anything.”

  “I doubt it, Jollie.”

  “I don’t, Darian.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “If you don’t work for METRO, Darian, how did you know my name? How did you know about my being able to profile people?”

  “I know that’s what you do because I listened to the report. The one made by a woman named Penelope Cranston. You spoke to her in a Denny’s.”

  “How’d you get your hands on that? The whole house was blown to hell.”

  “Not the whole place. You’d be amazed at what can survive a catastrophic event like that.”

  “So you sifted through the rubble and found Penelope’s smartphone?”

  “Yes. And we found a lot of other things too.”

  “When did you sift through the rubble? How long have you had me in this place?”

  “Not long. It all happened this morning, about five hours after daybreak.”

  “Then what about my friends?”

  “What about them?”

  “Are they alive?”

  “I would have liked that, Jollie. I really would have. But I’m sorry to report that the man who murdered my brother is very much dead. And your friend Andy . . . well, let’s just say he’s seen far better days.”

  “I want to see him.”

  “No you don’t. Believe me.”

  “I want to see him!”

  “Making your voice louder is no way to get what you want. A woman should know that. A smart woman anyway.”

  “You’re a pig. A disgusting, horrible pig.”

  “Enough, Jollie. I know losing your friends is difficult, but why let your emotions rule now? After you’ve shown such admirable control of your fear and such clear examination of the facts, after proving yourself a veritable master of deductive reasoning . . . well, I would have thought this would be a lot more interesting.”

  “This is a nightmare . . . a nightmare . . .”

  “You’re cryin
g, Jollie. That’s so pathetic. I’m very disappointed.”

  “You . . . pig . . .”

  “Poor Jollie Meeker. Activist and smart girl for hire. Always on the run, always sharp with a remark. Reduced to tears in the face of her life bottoming out. Are you going to really lose it now? Are you going to let the pain in your heart and the estrogen in your blood cancel out everything you know about survival? You’re doing nothing right now but proving me right.”

  “. . . YOU PIG!”

  “And now you sound like a little boy in a prison shower, cringing at the feet of his own rapists.”

  “YOU GODDAMN PERVERTED PIG!”

  “Say it again, Jollie. Prove me right. Prove that the only real truth in this world is the truth we find when we are blindsided by something we never expected—when everything in the world we ever relied on is taken away. Prove it to me, girl. Prove it to me now.”

  “You . . . you . . .”

  “You are almost broken. You are almost to the truth. Now all you have to do is tell me what I want to know . . . and I will withhold the secret of love and freedom. I will make the pain go away and you will go back to sleep. Tell me now.”

  “What . . . do you want to know?”

  “It’s a simple question, and I’m only going to ask it once. Do you understand?”

  “Yes . . .”

  “Say it again. Say it stronger.”

  “Yes, I understand.”

  “Okay, here goes. This is important. Everything rides on it. Many lives are at stake, including yours. Do you understand that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where did Mark Jones hide my drugs?”

  • • •

  She looks at him right in the eye, tears streaming down her face.

  And she says:

  “Fuck you.”

  • • •

  Darian smiles. The calmness on his face never breaks. He chews his gum slowly, the air between them full of uneasy tang. He gets up and tells her to follow him back down the hall.

  • • •

  They walk in silence. Are joined by three men in white. Three huge guys who could break Jollie in half. They all get in an elevator and head down. It opens directly into Darian’s hallway.

  The corridor of love and freedom.