“Meaning?”
“Meaning none of us live forever. Meaning we’re fighting for our lives here, and that can go one of two ways.”
“Is she being held against her will?”
The Prophet closes his eyes. He hums to himself for close to three minutes. Then he opens his eyes. “I believe she is.”
“I want a list of your accomplices. Where is the judge’s daughter, and who has her? Otherwise, you’re looking at life in prison without the possibility of parole.”
“I told you. I don’t know where she is. Only that the Witch has her.”
“The Witch?”
The Prophet sits up, straightens his shirt. “I’m sorry I can’t look you in the eye,” he says. “My glasses seem to have disappeared. In the early days of America, people believed demons were everywhere. The air was thick with them. You couldn’t help but breathe them in and sneeze them out. Thus, God bless you.”
“Paul, you’ve got, really, a narrow window here to make some kind of deal. To give me something I can bring to the prosecutor to keep him from eating you alive.”
The Prophet thinks about that.
Nancy stands, nods to the guard.
“Ticktock,” she says and goes to the door, bangs. The door opens.
As she walks out, the Prophet calls after her:
“We have a right to protect ourselves. It’s our planet too.”
*
One floor down, Felix too is chained to a table. But unlike the Prophet, he is jumping out of his skin. He keeps tugging at his restraints, trying to stand. He shouts at the wall. Somewhere out there his sister is still a prisoner. Somewhere out there his girlfriend could be dead or imprisoned. Felix struggles to slip from his cuffs. He struggles because Felix is not his real name. Because when he was fifteen he shot two state troopers outside Blountstown, Florida, to keep his daddy safe, and he has been running ever since. He struggles because this room is his worst nightmare, and he has been picturing it for years.
Nancy enters with another agent, who takes up a post by the door. The smoke smell has dissipated some but is still noticeable.
“Where’s my sister?” Felix asks, louder than he realizes.
Nancy sits without making eye contact. “Criminal trespass,” she says. “Possession of illegal firearms. Attempted kidnapping, or was it murder?”
“Where is she? Does he still have her?”
“You broke into the estate of a high-net-worth individual. Your friends started a shootout with private security forces. The female, Nadine Bolger, is dead. The male is in the hospital. You yourself were arrested carrying an AR-15 that has been tied to the murder of sheriff’s deputies at a detention facility in Reeves County.”
“I didn’t—listen to me,” says Felix. “He has my sister. He raped her.”
Nancy puts a piece of paper on the table. “We know your name isn’t Felix Moor.”
Felix looks at the paper. It’s a death certificate for a kid who died in August 2006. A kid whose social security number Samson DeWitt adopted so he could become a new man.
“We’re running your prints now,” Nancy tells him, “but you could save us all a lot of trouble by coming clean. I won’t lie. A lot of people in this building would love to get five minutes alone with you for what you did to those men up north. Good men. Family men.”
“That wasn’t me.”
“It was your gun.”
Felix is silent, his mind racing. “Listen to me,” he says, “he has her. Mobley. He kidnapped her and put a baby in her, and he’s holding her against her will.”
“Your sister.”
“Yes. Bath—Katie. Her name is Katie. She worked for him in San Francisco. She’s a painter, my sister. And Mobley said he would help her. E. L. Mobley. The billionaire. I know you know who I mean. My sister’s his prisoner. That’s why we were there. To rescue her.”
But Nancy doesn’t seem to care. “Give me your real name and I’ll make a few calls.”
Felix thinks about that. The things that would be triggered by his name.
“I don’t care what happens to me,” he says. “Do you understand? The only thing I care about is getting her out of there.”
“What about Story? Do you care about her? Or was that just an act to lure her in?”
“No. Of course I love her.”
“Then tell me where she is.”
Felix shakes his head. “I don’t know.”
“But she was with you.”
Felix keeps his mouth shut. If they’re asking him about Story, it means she escaped.
“I want a lawyer,” he says.
“You need a lawyer. But if we do that now, any hope of a plea goes out the window.”
Felix sits back. “Could I get a glass of water?”
But Nancy just stares at him.
“Look,” he says, “I’m gonna tell you something. Give you something. Something big. But first I wanna talk to my sister. You get her on the phone, and I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”
After the agents are gone, Felix tries to calm himself. He knows deep in his bones that he will spend the rest of his days in rooms this size or smaller. Rooms with bars. Rooms with thick plexiglass barriers. Rooms with beds and toilets. Cells. They are in some ways his birthright. A future gifted to him by a father so oppositional, so repulsed by authority that he raised his son to shoot on sight.
For Samson DeWitt, Planet Earth has shrunk down to four walls.
And they are closing in.
*
Randall Flagg wakes in an El Paso emergency room. He is handcuffed to a bed, tubes running out of his nose, IV line in his arm. The first word out of his mouth is “Fuck.”
“Fuckin’ what?” he mumbles, reaching for the tube in his nose, his hand stopped short by the cuffs. His brain feels muffled.
“Unh-unh,” warns a voice to his right. Randall looks over.
There is a Texas state trooper sitting in a chair by the window, sports pages open in front of him, toothpick between his teeth.