Gordon is difficult to gauge, in temperament as well as age. He looks like a healthy fifty-five, but he could be much younger. His accent is Irish, but his tan tells me that he hasn’t seen Ireland in quite a while.
We walk through a maze of hallways and up four staircases. At the top of the final staircase is a corridor with windows on both sides. The walkway, which goes on for about a hundred yards, appears to bridge two worlds. On one side, you can see only the resort portion of the complex—trees, grass, pool, driving range, something that looks like a spa. The resort area is bordered on three sides by a high wall painted top to bottom with an elaborate mural of bucolic beaches, sea, and sky. The wall is so tall that, from my vantage point, I can’t see beyond the resort. On the other side, the view is the complete opposite: a sprawling prison complex, electric fences, guard towers, concrete inner courtyards, people in gray jumpsuits walking slowly around a dirt track. Beyond that, the desert stretches for miles. The prison is ugly and frightening, but the desert beyond is somehow more terrifying and forbidding. It’s the sort of prison that you probably wouldn’t escape even if the guards and walls all fell away.
Gordon punches a long code into a keypad and the door pops open. The plush carpeting and remarkable views give way to concrete walls painted institutional green. Gordon punches a code into another keypad and motions for me to step inside. Suddenly, a younger man in a gray uniform steps out of the shadows. I shudder, feeling his breath on my neck. We keep moving deeper into the concrete building. I walk several paces behind Gordon, and the younger man walks several paces behind me. Every hundred feet or so, we come to a new set of doors. Each time, Gordon enters a code and the door opens. Each door closes behind us with a loud electronic clang. It is as if we are on a journey deep into the heart of this cold building. With the sound of each closing door, I’m battling an increasing sense of hopelessness.
Eventually, we descend a steep staircase. I count thirty-three steps. At the bottom, we turn right, then left, then right. I try to memorize our turns, but we go on and on through more doors, more hallways. Is Gordon using the same code for every door, or has he memorized dozens of them? At this point, even if I had the codes, there’s no way I could find my way out of the building. I’m trapped.
It occurs to me that I could die in here and no one would know. I tell myself that if The Pact wanted to kill me, they could have put a bullet in my head the moment I stepped off the plane; unless, of course, Gordon simply takes pleasure in the game—leading the rat farther and farther into the maze, until I die of terror and exhaustion.
I hear sounds up ahead. I glance right to another hallway, wondering what would happen if I took off running. There has to be an exit somewhere. As if reading my mind, Gordon asks, “Would you like a tour of this part of the facility?”
“I’d love one,” I reply.
It appears to be the correct response. “Splendid. We can do it as soon as we get a few of our questions out of the way.”
What questions? How will I possibly know the right answers? I imagine there are answers that lead to my release, and answers that lead to more dark hallways, more goons in suits.
One last door. One last code. And then Gordon, the uniformed guy, and I are standing in a small room, about ten feet by ten feet. The room is blazingly white. There is a table in the middle, two chairs, metal rings on the table. A plain manila folder sits atop the table. One of the chairs is bolted to the ground. One wall is covered by large black plate glass. A two-way mirror? “Have a seat,” Gordon says, gesturing toward the restraint chair. I sit, trying not to focus on the metal rings directly in front of me. Upon my arrival, why did I allow myself to be lulled by the luxurious room and five-star service?
Gordon sits across from me. The other guy remains standing beside the closed door. “Jake,” Gordon says. “Thank you so much for taking the time to help us with this inquiry.”
I’m startled to hear my name. Members seem to have one name for each other: “Friend.” So what does that make Gordon?
“Why am I here?” I say, trying to keep my voice steady.
Gordon rests his elbows on the table and temples his fingers in front of his face—a classic posture of disdain, signaling intellectual superiority. “Inquiries are essentially a closer look we take at issues that have been brought to our attention. The issues arise in a variety of ways, and we investigate until some reasonably clear determination can be made.”
Blah blah blah. Another thing I’ve noticed about The Pact is that they never just come out and say what they mean in clear and simple language. Everything is buried under a preamble of explanation, background, and hold-harmless clauses. I imagine a dictionary in some stuffy room, filled with phrases one must memorize and overblown words Orla and her cronies have made up. Throughout history, fascists and cults have spoken their own language—words meant to obfuscate, to hide the truth, but also to make members feel special by separating them from the general population.
Gordon opens up the folder in front of him and shuffles through the papers. “So I was wondering if you might take a few moments to tell me about JoAnne Charles.”
My heart sinks.
“JoAnne Charles?” I repeat, trying to act surprised and detached. “I hardly know her.”
“Well, let’s start with what you do know, shall we? How did you meet?”
“JoAnne Webb, or JoAnne Charles, and I used to work together at university.”
Gordon gives a slight nod. “Continue.”
“We were both resident advisers during our sophomore year. We saw each other two or three times a week at RA meetings and training events. We became friends. Occasionally we met to discuss the rigors of the job, compare notes, or sometimes just pass along gossip.”
Gordon nods again. Seconds pass. Clearly, he wants more. I know this tactic: A person in a position without power will keep talking just to avoid the awkward silence. I won’t do it.
“I have all day,” Gordon prompts. “Hours. Days. I have as long as we need.”
“I don’t know what you want from me. Like I said, JoAnne and I hardly know each other.”
He smiles. The guy by the door shifts, his uniform rustling. “Perhaps you could tell me a little more about your time working together. I don’t see how there could be any harm in that.”
I consider. What will they do if I keep my mouth shut? I have no doubt Gordon would keep me in this room indefinitely. “Our junior year,” I say, “we were two out of only four returning advisers, so we got to know each other better. We often saw each other at mealtimes or, on occasion, during social events.”
“Did you eat meals together?”
“Sometimes.”
“Would you say that you two were friends?”
“I suppose. But mainly I would describe our relationship as being that of work colleagues. Of course, living in close quarters, we came to know each other pretty well.”
“Did you ever meet her family?”