The apologetic expression disappeared as Kam stood up. “You can speak now, Ranger.”
In a flash, Hawkins remembered the last time he’d heard Kam’s voice. Mother. He called the monster “Mother.” Was it just a name, or was that thing somehow Kam’s actual mother?
“Hawkins?” Bray said. “You’re here?”
“Yeah, Eight. I’m here.” Hawkins turned toward Bray’s voice. He was sitting on a metal bench in a cell identical to Hawkins’s—thirty-six square feet surrounded by metal bars. The smooth, gray floor held a drain at the sloped center. The cells were modern, but ultimately not very dissimilar to those of the old laboratory. Beyond Bray, Hawkins saw Jones, Blok, and Bennett, bound with plastic cuffs and sitting in identical cells, each with a hood over their heads.
Kam stepped back, out of the cell, and locked the door. It was a simple sliding lock, like an animal cage. If not for the plastic cuffs, it would be easy to escape. Hawkins strained at his bonds. There would be no breaking them, nor slipping free.
When Kam stepped to Bray’s cell and unlocked the door, Hawkins got a view of the rest of the room. It wasn’t just a holding cell, it was a surgical suite! The bright light filling the room came from an array of floodlights hanging down from the ceiling above a single operating table. The brushed metal surface was clean, but the floor around it was stained red from blood. There had clearly been some effort put into cleaning the mess and keeping the place sanitary, but whatever surgery had taken place here recently had been mopped up hastily. Next to the table were two carts. The first was empty, but no doubt meant for holding tools of the trade. The second was full of monitoring equipment and held a portable defibrillator, just in case the subject tried to go and die before the mutilation was complete.
Glass cabinets lined the walls. They were packed with medical supplies, lines of orange plastic pill containers, thick brown glass bottles, and an array of well-organized cleaning supplies. Bright blue rubber aprons hung by the exit. Matching gloves and boots rested on a bench below. On the wall opposite the supplies was a pegboard similar to the one in the barn’s slaughter shed, and some of the tools hanging from the pegs looked similar—hacksaws, scalpels, scoops, forceps, clamps, retractors, scissors, and drills. Below the wall of tools was a countertop. It held a small refrigerator, two microscopes, rows of tubes, syringes, and other nonsurgical tools. A flat-screen monitor on a swiveling arm was mounted above the microscopes.
This is Charles Manson’s dream come true, Hawkins thought.
“You’ve got to be shitting me,” Bray said. His hood had been removed and he was looking over the room.
Kam moved from cell to cell, removing hoods and relocking doors. He waited in silence as each man expressed his revolt at their surroundings. He was never rough. Never cruel. Almost polite. This was not the kind of man who kidnaps his friends. So who is pulling his strings? Maybe no one. The apology could have been a deception, like everything else on this island.
“Is this where you did it?” Bray asked. “Where you operated on Jim?”
“What happened to Jim?” Bennett asked, eyes wide. The kid was in shock. Hawkins didn’t know how Bennett ended up here, but guessed he’d been plucked from his hiding spot by the big chimera. That encounter probably did a number on his psyche.
“He was mutilated,” Hawkins said. “Blades attached to his wrists. Eyes removed. Ears replaced with some kind of devices. And he’d been lobotomized.” Hawkins knew the news wouldn’t be received well by his cellmates, but he wanted to see Kam’s reaction. He had none, aside from a slight frown.
“What about Ray?” Bennett asked. “Where is he?”
Hawkins turned to Bennett. He looked like a shell-shocked POW, but still had the presence of mind to ask all the right questions.
Jones stood and kicked the bars of his cell. “And Jackie! Where the hell is my daughter!”
“Ray did not survive his alterations,” Kam said after a moment. “Jackie is … alive.” He turned to Hawkins. “As is Joliet.”
“‘Alive’ isn’t exactly the same as okay,” Hawkins said. “Is it?”
Kam turned away.
“Why are you doing this?” Jones shouted. “Tell me, you son of a bitch!”
Kam stood still, head nodded toward the floor. Hawkins couldn’t tell if he felt bad, was deep in thought, or indifferent to the questions.