Dominion (11 page)

“Yes, sir.”

“Now. I’m going to make this extremely easy for you.” The Captain reached into his bag and brought out a transparent evidence bag. Inside was Ruppert’s wallet, a thin square box fronted with a screen for communications and transactions, with hollow compartments for cash and other items. The compartments were now open and empty.

The Captain laid the evidence bag on the table, then placed a second bag beside it. This one held the plastic card with the long alphanumeric direct number stamped across it.

“Where did you get this?” The Captain indicated the card.

“I’m not sure.”

Another painful electric shock hit him.

“Again,” the Captain said.

“I don’t remember.”

Another electric shock, even stronger this time.

“Why are you still trying to lie, Mr. Ruppert? Have you not fully grasped the rules? Don’t you think we investigated the number ourselves? We know who this contacts.”

“Then you know more than I do,” Ruppert said. He winced, waited for the shock, but either the Captain sensed he was telling the truth or he’d grown tired of jolting him for the moment.

“Allow me to make this completely clear, Mr. Ruppert. We still have your wife in custody. We can have your parents in ten minutes, if we wish to, though I don’t think they would hold up at this facility as well as you have. As for you—how familiar are you with the coal-mining industry?”

“Not at all. Sir.”

“You will learn fast. I have a standing request from a civilian labor camp in West Virginia. I don’t know what goes on there, but they do seem to have a bottomless demand for workers.

“As for your wife, there is a constant need for workers to help clean up the Comanche Peak reactor site. You remember the Comanche Peak meltdown, don’t you? You probably reported on it.”

“I was still an intern then.”

“Workers assigned there have an eighty-three percent chance of developing malignancies within twelve months. Again, a bottomless demand for warm bodies.”

Ruppert could not answer. He tried to suppress his imagined picture of Madeline toothless, hairless, shriveled by cancerous radiation.

“I have the necessary assignment orders on my desk,” the Captain said. “They only need my signature. I could put you both on a train tonight—separate trains, of course. You’d be at work by five A.M. Eastern time. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now, I will likely send you both to these work camps. There is only one other possibility. Would you like to hear the other possibility?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Mr. Stone clearly intended that you make contact with this person.” The Captain tapped the card in the evidence bag. “We want you to do that. You are permitted for the purposes of this conversation to ask questions.”

“Why do you want me to do this?”

“Not an acceptable question.”

“Okay, I’m sorry. What…do you want me to say when I call?”

“You will do whatever is necessary to gain his trust. We believe that he knows the whereabouts of a Class A target, a person of high priority to my organization. We believe he may even lead you to this person, in time. Look at him carefully. We want you to find his location.”

The Captain laid his screen flat on the table and turned it around so Ruppert could see it clearly. The screen displayed two pictures of one man, probably a police mug shot. The man looked to be in his late thirties or early forties, large and husky like a football lineman gone to fat. He had a heavy mustache that sprawled out at either side into scraggly beard. His hair was long but he was balding at the top, and in the balding area Ruppert could see an aged, slightly wrinkled tattoo of what looked like scratch marks, or the footprints of chickens.

He read the description below the pic:

Two text rectangles blinked next to the image: AGE PROGRESSION and DISTINGUISHING MARKS/TATTOOS. Ruppert touched the second one, and the two pictures of the man’s face were replaced by a dozen close-ups of his tattoos: a howling wolf, surrounded by more of the scratchy marks, on his shoulder; something that looked like a swastika, but with only three arms, on his calf; something that was definitely a swastika surrounded by a ring of fire on his back.

“I don’t understand,” Ruppert said. “Why would Sully be involved with somebody like this?”

“It’s a strange world,” the Captain said. “I never said your deviant friend knew this target personally.”

“Why are you so interested in this person?”

“Class A target. Threat to the state.”

“How am I categorized?”

“Class D. Minor nuisance.”

“That’s nice to hear,” Ruppert said. “So if I agree to make contact, and try to find this old skinhead, then what?”

“Then I wave a magic wand and put your life back together for you,” the Captain said. “We let you go. We let your wife go.”

“You’ll drop all the charges?”

“We’ll let you go with a very severe warning. And we’ll keep a close watch on you for a long time—not that you’ll notice. You get us our target and then go back to being an obedient, moral citizen, then you’ll never have to hear from us again.”

“I feel like I should have a lawyer here or something.”

“We don’t deal in written laws.”

“Then how do I know you’ll hold up your end?”

“It’s this or a labor camp.”

“Good point.” He only had to help them capture somebody who was obviously dangerous. The alternative was horrifying. “I’ll do it.”

“You don’t want to think it over?”

“What’s to think about?”

The Captain smiled, but his pale blue eyes were flat and lifeless. “You are correct. It is an easy choice, isn’t it? I only hope you do not let the comforts of your life outside delude you into thinking you’ve escaped us. You must carry out this task or we will take you back.”

“I understand, sir.”

The Captain studied him for a long moment. He touched the AGE PROGRESSION button on the screen, and the face of Hollis Westerly appeared again, his hair longer and heavily streaked with gray, his bald spot expanded, his jowls deeper.

“Take a careful look, Mr. Ruppert. When you find this man, you will contact us. If you touch the weather icon on your wallet screen, then touch the Ski Forecast icon, that will send the necessary signal to us. That’s all you need to do. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.”

“Your cooperation is appreciated.” The Captain stood and gathered up his things, including Ruppert’s wallet, then moved for the door. “You will see that we are just as proficient at rewarding our friends as we are at punishing our enemies.”

He left the room, and a minute later the guards unstrapped Ruppert from the chair. This time, they did not take him back to the refrigerated cell, but up two flights of stairs, down a corridor lined with full-size doors, and into a concrete, windowless room with a padded bunk, a sink, a clear toilet. A few minutes after they locked him in, a hatch in the door opened and a plastic platter covered with foil was deposited on his floor.

Ruppert pulled away the foil. Underneath was a steaming hot meal of roasted chicken, baked potatoes, broccoli and carrots. There was even a chilled can of soda. After days of starvation, it looked like a feast. The hunger had taken second place to his physical suffering, but now it rose to consume him.

Ruppert began to eat his reward.

TWELVE

Ruppert fell asleep on the padded cot, which felt like a down-stuffed mattress after countless nights on the cold concrete floor. He awoke in the back seat of a moving car. A yellow taxi cab. A clear panel divided him from the driver, who looked back at him in the rearview mirror.

“Got you moving, huh?” the cabbie said. “You’re almost home. Just take it easy.”

Ruppert became aware of a sour odor flooding his nostrils and the back of his throat. More sour-smelling air poured from the vents overhead. The sky was a dark blue outside, either just before sunrise or just after sunset.

“Where are you taking me?” Ruppert said.

“Like I said, you’re almost home. I got you up just in time. Here we are, pal.” The gates to Ruppert’s walled neighborhood opened in the cab’s headlights, and they drove inside. Ruppert began to understand that it was not a regular taxi, but a discreet way for Terror to move people around.

They stopped in front of Ruppert’s house.

“Remember the agreement you made,” the cabbie said. “I’m supposed to remind you of that. I don’t know anything about it myself, but I’d advise you to stick to whatever agreement you made. The organization does not care for unreliable people.”

“I will,” Ruppert said. He reached into his pocket, found the hard square of his wallet. “Do I pay you, or…?”
The cabbie laughed. “On the house, Jack. Now get out. Nice place you got here.”

The car door beside Ruppert swung open, and Ruppert tried not to look to eager as he climbed out and stepped onto his driveway. He swayed on his unsteady feet; Terror must have tranquilized him for the ride home. He had no idea where he’d been imprisoned or how far away it was.

The cab’s door closed and the taxi drove towards the exit gate. The sky had already brightened a little; it must be morning instead of night. Ruppert stumbled for the front door, groggily aware that something was strung around his neck, swinging with every move. When the motion lights over his door clicked on, he saw it was a lei of fake flowers. They’d dressed him in an absurd outfit, a bright tropical shirt and Bermuda shorts, as if he had just returned from an island vacation.

The front door opened and he continued into his house. Everything looked just as he’d left it; his house had not been searched and gutted like Sully’s. It was hard to believe he’d been gone at all.

“Mr. Ruppert, you have one urgent message waiting,” the house said in its pleasant female voice.

Ruppert shuffled to the video wall in his living room. “Show messages,” he said.

More than a dozen images appeared, but one of them blinked red. It showed George Baldwin, the Terror agent assigned to his GlobeNet office.

“Play the urgent one,” Ruppert said.

The image of Baldwin swelled to take up the whole wall, then it animated. Baldwin was all smiles.

“Daniel,” he said, “George Baldwin from work. Just a quick note to say we hope you enjoyed your vacation, and we’re all looking forward to seeing you back at work on Monday. Rest up this weekend, and be sure and put some ointment on those jellyfish burns. Have a good day, and say hi to your wife for me!” Baldwin’s grinning face froze, then vanished.

In his drugged, disoriented state, Ruppert had forgotten to worry about Madeline, but now an overwhelming fear washed over him. They could have done anything—kept her in custody as a means of controlling him, or brutalized her as a warning.

“Madeline!” he yelled. He went up the stairs, but his balance was poor and he climbed most of the way on his hands and knees. He lurched down the hall, leaning on the wall the whole way, and into the bedroom.

“Madeline?” He entered the master bedroom, and thought immediately of Sully’s bedroom—the shredded mattress, the imprint of blood and hair on one poster.

His bedroom looked fine. Madeline lay in her usual place, the covers bunched up around her. He sat beside her, peeled back the blankets to look at her. She had no visible injuries to her face. He checked each of her hands, and neither of them bore the black tangle of scars that his did. As far as he could tell, she was unharmed.

He touched her dark red hair, then leaned down and kissed her cheek. “I love you, Madeline,” he whispered. Even if it wasn’t strictly true, she was his to protect and care for in a world that grew increasingly hostile, and he didn’t want to see her harmed. They’d both survived this. They could heal from it together.

“Hmm?” She opened her eyes, and her lips snarled. She slapped at his face repeatedly with both hands. “Get back! Get away from me!”

Stunned, Ruppert barely managed to block her flailing hands as he retreated to the far corner of the bed.

“Look, Madeline, I’m sorry. Whatever they did to you, it’s over now.”

“They told me about it, Daniel.”

“What?”

“Don’t act innocent. They told me about her.”

“Who?”

“You know who, Daniel.” Her green eyes burned at him. “Your…girlfriend. How could you do that to me?”

“I don’t know what you mean.” Ruppert hadn’t slept with anyone but Madeline since their wedding. “Madeline, there’s nobody else.”

“They had video!” she screamed. “I saw you doing…nasty things with that ugly brown girl. Unnatural things. Putting it in unnatural places, Daniel.” She looked at the crotch of his Bermuda shorts, and then her lips began to tremble and she turned her head away from him, leaving a wall of red hair between them. “Places God didn’t mean for it to go.”

“It’s not true, Madeline. They can fake video. Easiest thing in the world. You can’t believe something just because you see it on a screen.”

“So what does that mean? You’re on the screen every night. I guess the news is all made up, too.”

“Most of it.”

She let out a screech and hurled a pillow at his face. He didn’t bother knocking it away. At least she had the presence of mind to pick a decorative pillow laden with buttons and beads, a couple of which gouged at his cheek when the pillow hit him.

“Madeline, I’m telling the truth. I never cheated on you.”

“They told me. I know it’s true.”

“Why do you trust them?”

“You have to trust
them
, Daniel.”