“Leave it. No personal items.”
I drop the phone on the bed and follow her into the hallway. Her hair is pulled back in a tight knot, and there’s a distinct military influence in her stride. She grabs my arm right above the elbow. I fight the urge to yank it away, since I’m guessing that would be seen as uncooperative, and fall into step beside her. Everything about her says no chitchat, so I don’t bother asking about Deo or where we’re headed. I just walk quietly and try to observe as much as I can about our surroundings.
Plain gray walls, with no paintings or other decoration. No windows. The floors are a slightly darker shade of gray. We pass a half-dozen doors numbered in the eighties, then turn right. Maybe twenty yards later, I see Timm-Whatever, my cheerful personal alarm clock. He’s in a cubicle off to the side, typing something into the computer, and doesn’t look up when we walk by.
Still no windows or exit doors. No exit signs, even.
As we pass Room 81, I hear a loud thud and the door vibrates slightly, like it was hit by a shoe or something. Then someone starts yelling. I can’t make out the words, but the voice is high-pitched, angry. Frightened.
“That’s . . . that’s a kid.” I pause and turn back for a moment.
“No,” she says, but I can’t tell if she’s disagreeing or saying it’s none of my business.
I glance at the door one more time. Thump. Thumpthumpthumpthumpthumpthump. The door is vibrating again, but as I look more closely, it’s not a normal vibration. Only the center third of the door seems affected. It seems to bulge into the hallway a fraction of an inch and then returns to normal.
Or maybe I just didn’t get enough sleep . . .
Bellamy yanks my arm. “Follow me now.”
We eventually reach a second computer station. Behind it is a woman, her eyes glued to a large wall-mounted monitor divided into four numbered squares. The images on the screen are identical—a room with two chairs facing each other across a table. The only difference is that the chairs in the rooms numbered 1 and 4 are occupied.
The woman looks up when we approach, avoiding eye contact with me as she hands Bellamy a clipboard. “We’ve got you in Testing Room 3,” she says.
“Standard entry tests, right?”
“Yeah. Just cover the checklist for now. They’ll either start differentiation after lunch or first thing tomorrow, since you’re getting a late start. Don’t rush it. This one is a 2A, so take whatever time and precautions you need.” The woman’s gaze passes over my face as she says the last part. Then she looks away quickly, as though she’s frightened or maybe disgusted.
I follow Bellamy. When we’re a few steps away, she stops and turns back. “Oh, get someone to check in on 81.”
“Again?”
The woman gives Bellamy a look I can’t interpret, but Bellamy doesn’t respond to the question.
The doors in this corridor aren’t numbered, but Bellamy opens the second one on the left. She nods toward one of the chairs, and I search for the camera as I sit. It’s mounted in the rear of the room, pointing directly at the table. I’m tempted to wave at the woman from the hallway, since I’m certain her monitor now shows Bellamy and me in square number 3. But that would probably be construed as smart-ass, so I keep my hands folded in my lap.
Bellamy extracts a small deck of plain gray cards from a drawer beneath the table and places them next to her. Then she picks up the clipboard and pen.
“Subject is Anna Elizabeth Morgan, age seventeen-point-nine-two. Race?” She waits a moment and then repeats the question. “Your race?”
“Oh. Caucasian.”
“Hispanic?”
Might as well get this over with. I set my mouth in a firm line and say, “I’m not answering any more questions until someone proves to me that Taddeo Ramos is safe.”
Bellamy sighs and places the clipboard on the table. “I have no information. My assignment is to conduct your entry tests. Once those are complete, you’ll be assigned a handler and you can ask her or him whatever questions you like. You have two options. Answer my questions or I will handcuff you and escort you back to your room—and if you resist, I will tase you first. Then we’ll start this process again tomorrow morning, at which point you’ll face the same two choices. Rinse and repeat until you decide to cooperate. The quickest way for you to get the information you want is to let me do my job.”
Her voice isn’t unkind or angry. It’s just bored, and very matter-of-fact. Monotone, even.
“So, I’ll repeat. Are you Hispanic?”
“To the best of my knowledge, no.”