Goodhouse (20 page)

There were two doors. One was obviously an entrance into the basement, but the other was tucked in the far corner under the stairs. The door itself was recessed and narrow, and its access light was blinking yellow. I stopped to examine it. For all students an entrance was either red or green. There was no yellow light. My first thought was that this was a test. I should find the intake nurse and report the malfunction. I walked closer. It looked like some sliding panel was meant to cover the door, but the panel was partially retracted. On impulse I reached for the handle. It opened.

I stepped over a threshold and stood in a small antechamber. It was noticeably hotter in there, and the ceiling was very low. I could touch it with my hand. A heavy, clear plastic curtain blocked my view, but it had been cut into overlapping strips, and these parted and then resealed themselves as I passed. On the other side of the curtain was a long corridor. Numbered doors were set into the wall every ten feet. Each door had an observation window. I stopped at the first one and peered through the glass.

A young boy squatted on the floor, wearing only a pair of underwear. His right wrist was secured by a wall restraint, and he was hunched over as if dozing in a squat. He looked reptilian, his bony spine pressing against his skin. His eyes were closed, but his lips were pulled back, showing clenched teeth. I touched the glass in the window and it went momentarily opaque as the boy's chart was displayed—a series of notes about dosage and duration. His heart rate ticked in the upper right corner, the way it did on our personal pages. As soon as I removed my hand from the glass, it cleared, and I saw the boy was awake and looking at me. His nostrils were flexing as if he were scenting the air. Then his eyes fluttered closed and he curled tight around himself.

Of course, we all knew the Intensives could be dangerous. In the shower I'd seen boys with deep scars on their arms and backs. The idea that I needed to be modified was central to every conception I had of myself. I expected to be altered, medicated—but this was so much more. The banality of my life here, the relentless routine, I realized that it had acted like a camouflage. The closer you stand to a picture, the harder it is to see it with any clarity, and when you are deep inside the pattern, you are truly blind.

A booming noise startled me. Farther down the hall one of the doors vibrated as if it had been hit. I walked closer and peered into the observation window. At first I saw just an empty wall restraint and a smear of blood beneath it. But then I saw someone I recognized. It was Harold, the only other transfer from La Pine. He was backing up to rush the door. He charged forward and hit the slab with stunning force. It boomed like a drum. He was shouting something, too, but I couldn't understand him. His hair was stiff with dried blood, and his too-close-together eyes looked especially feral. He seemed animated by some terrible energy, some hungry rage. On impulse, I reached for the door handle. Inside, the room was very hot, and it stank like a latrine. Harold immediately ran toward me, and I yanked the door closed, so that he collided with it, making a sickening thump.

I found the intercom button and depressed it. “Harold,” I said, “it's me, James. Are you okay?” It was a stupid question, and when I looked through the glass, I saw that he had collapsed onto his side. I thought maybe he was unconscious. I called his name a few times, and then I said, “I'm going to open the door now. Just stay where you are.” But as soon as I stepped into the room, he was awake and on his feet. He made a high-pitched howling noise like a balloon deflating and then charged past me. The overhead alarm began to clang and shriek as he ran the length of the dim hallway. He kicked his way through the plastic curtain and disappeared.

I didn't know what to do. “Shit,” I said. “Shit.”

I ran after him. I sped through the door and out into the stairwell, almost colliding with a proctor. We startled each other, and the man scrambled to get away from me, his body in a crouch, as if he were expecting a confrontation.

“Get on the ground,” he said. “On the ground, now.” But I didn't comply. Somewhere overhead Harold was keening.

“What's wrong with him?” I asked.

The proctor unholstered his Lewiston. “I've got a Code 34.” He spoke into the mic at his collar. “Repeat, Code 34.”

The alarm cut and a faint voice chattered from the proctor's earphone.

“You think I'm from the Intensive,” I said. I took a single step toward him and he jumped back, his Lewiston slashing in front of him, warding me off. “Why are you so afraid?”

“Get on the ground,” the man shouted.

“Or what?” I said. His fear empowered me. We were alone—for a few moments, anyway—a man with a name tag and a student with a name. “When the Zeros come they will burn you, too,” I said. “They like to kill proctors. Do you know why?”

He backed toward the staircase. The staccato of descending footsteps grew louder. Many footsteps.

“We might belong to the Devil, but you,” I said, “are our servants.”

The basement door banged open and Dr. Cleveland stood on the threshold. He wore casual civilian clothes, gray pants and a white shirt. He was holding a handful of pistachio nuts, cracking a shell between his fingers. “James,” he said, “you seem to have gotten lost.”

“Sir.” The proctor moved to stand between the doctor and myself, his Lewiston crackling. Between its two contact points, the arc of electricity was a bright, wavering line. “This is a Code 34,” the proctor said. “Return to your office.”

Dr. Cleveland popped a pistachio into his mouth. “I'll take it from here,” he said. “You're dismissed.”

“Sir,” the man stammered. “Sir, I have to ask you to reconsider.”

“You can ask,” the doctor said. He motioned for me to follow. Four other proctors came thundering down the stairs, their Lewistons drawn. “Gentlemen.” The doctor nodded. They all stopped at the sight of him.

“We've got a code,” one man said. He was out of breath. He pointed to me. “This one?”

“This one's not for you,” Dr. Cleveland said.

As I turned to follow the doctor, I noticed that the door to the Intensive was gone. Whatever panel concealed it had slid back into place, and now the wall looked like any other—gray and smooth, like polished concrete, like something that it clearly was not.

*   *   *

Dr. Cleveland escorted me into his office, and I recognized the room, the bulbous cactus in a terra-cotta pot, the single shelf that held leather-bound books. Bethany had sat at this desk when we'd spoken on the factory wallscreen, and now her father sat in the same creaking wooden chair.

“What is a Code 34?” I asked. My voice sounded thin and choked.

Dr. Cleveland made a little pile of empty pistachio shells on the desktop. “Have a seat,” he said. He motioned to an upholstered chair across from him. There was a large photograph of Bethany on his desk. She looked younger, perhaps twelve, and she stood in some kind of park with oversize lollipops jutting from a snowbank. She was buck-toothed and wearing a red-and-white-striped headband and matching party dress. I quickly checked the corners of the room for cameras, but I didn't see any.

“Pistachio?” Dr. Cleveland asked. I shook my head no. “They were a gift, but they're stale, so maybe a regift.” He accidentally knocked a few of the shells onto the floor. “Messy, too,” he said, and then bent to pick them up.

In the few seconds he ducked out of sight, I reached forward and grabbed a pen off his desk. I disguised the motion by leaning forward as if shifting my weight. I rolled the pen between my thigh and the chair. It was a thick plastic. High quality.

“What's wrong with those boys?” I asked.

“You've created an awkward situation for me, James,” he said, straightening up and shelling another pistachio. “Let's start there.”

“You're a Zero,” I said.

“That didn't use to be a dirty word,” he said. “What is it they say? Youth is curiosity minus understanding. It's a cruel trick. To be young.”

“You're a killer,” I said. “That's all I need to know.”

The doctor made a chuffing noise, a dismissive sort of sound. He stood and walked toward a small gray metal cabinet. The handle must have been keyed, because I heard the lock disengage as he touched it. I wedged my hand under my thigh. He returned with an ornate green glass bottle. He unscrewed the top, then picked a glass off his desk and blew into it to dislodge any dust. “I'd pour you one,” he said, “but without a taste of cheap cognac first, you won't be able to appreciate the flavor.” He sat back, holding the glass in his hands. “So,” he said, “what shall I do with you?”

For a tense moment we just looked at each other.

“Well,” he said, “before you stab me with that pen—which is more likely to annoy than incapacitate me—you should hear what I have to say. Surely you can delay the pleasure a little longer?”

“You shot my friend.” My voice was gathering strength. “I should kill you,” I said. “That's only fair.”

“Fair,” he repeated. “Now, there's an idea.” He leaned forward, and with a flick of his wrist, he pulled a small paper booklet aside to reveal what appeared to be an old-fashioned revolver. He nudged it toward me. “Take it,” he said. “It's an antique Smith & Wesson. Belonged to my great-great-grandfather. The safety is on the right side and you have to pull the hammer back.”

I stared at the gun. “It's not loaded,” I said, though I couldn't be sure. I didn't know anything about guns. “You just want to test me,” I said.

“I shot a lot of bottles with that thing as a kid,” he said. “A couple of squirrels, too, which I regret. Do you know what those men were doing to the wounded boys?” he asked. “No, of course, they don't tell you anything. I always thought that was a mistake.” He poured himself another drink. “They killed some of them outright, but the others we found a few days later in Umatilla County. It wasn't quick.” He swirled the glass and sniffed it. “Whatever my flaws,” he said, “and I know they are many, I don't act without reason. Your friend had been shot in the stomach. He wasn't going to die quickly.”

“You don't know that.”

“Actually, I do,” he said.

“So, you were doing him a favor,” I said.

“I saved you,” said the doctor. “I saved your life. Do you think I like to shoot little boys? The Zeros used to be a very different thing. Back in my day they were all about candlelight vigils and community letter writing.” He sighed. “They were not radicalized like they are today. I knew the attack was a possibility, but it was by no means a sure thing. I was there to stop them, but you remember,” he said. “Could you stop that fire? Could one man stop forty others?”

“You didn't even try,” I said. “You could have helped him.”

“Your friend was dying,” he said.

“It wasn't up to you,” I said.

“Do you still want to shoot me?” he asked. “Do you want to orphan my daughter? Condemn yourself to trial and execution? You can, you know. How's that for power? Or you can listen to my side of the story and find it reassuring or unsatisfying—disgusting, perhaps. But no more curiosity without understanding.”

I picked the gun up off the desk. It was heavier than I expected. The stock was smooth—some kind of ancient, oiled wood. “Is this the gun you used?” I asked.

“It is,” he said.

I stared at its barrel, the blackened shaft and the round, corrugated side of the chamber. I thought of the boys hunched in their cells, wearing only their underwear. “How many people have you killed with this?”

“Not many,” said the doctor.

“Why didn't you call the police?” I asked. “Why didn't you start shooting Zeros? You must know some of them. You could reveal their identities.”

He leaned back in his chair, cradling the glass between his hands. “Yes, that would appear to be the right choice,” he said. “But if I stay silent, I maintain access to sources of information. The police can nab a few Zeros, they can lock me away, but for all their well-meaning procedure, they will not be able to predict and prevent another attack. And it's coming.” The doctor smiled. “So that's one more layer of gray. Your revenge will cost the lives of other boys.”

“You're lying,” I said. I stood up. “If you really wanted to help us, you wouldn't gamble your life.” I pulled the hammer back and squeezed the trigger, meaning to demonstrate the lack of bullets and—to my astonishment—the gun fired with a terrific roar. I felt the recoil in my body, a sudden kick of energy that disappeared into my arm and chest. I staggered backward and nearly tripped over my chair. The scent of ammonia filled the air.

“You missed,” the doctor said. He reached for a pistachio.

“Are you out of your mind?” I said. “I could have killed you.”

He waved as if to dismiss this possibility. “You weren't even aiming,” he said. I heard the sound of running feet in the hallway and then a knock on the door. “Everything's fine,” he called.

“Sir, we heard a noise,” a proctor said. I just had time to tuck the gun behind me as the door opened. I stood in front of the doctor's desk, wide-eyed and radiating guilt.

“Everything's fine,” Dr. Cleveland said. “As you can see.”

The proctor sniffed the air. He glanced between us. A long moment passed. “I'll be right outside if you need me,” he said.

“If you like,” the doctor said. “But I'm working with a patient. I don't want to be interrupted.”

The moment that the proctor was gone, I threw the gun into a small metal wastebasket at the foot of the desk. I wanted the thing out of my hand.

“He knew,” I said.

“Of course,” the doctor said.

“But you don't have any cameras in here, do you?”