Just then, I hear a rumbling, and the wall I’m leaning against begins to move. At first I think I must be imagining it. But then I see that the wall behind JoAnne is definitely moving. I scoot forward. So does JoAnne.
“Every hour,” she says, “the room gets an inch smaller.”
“What?”
“The room is shrinking. That’s how unhappy they are with me. I will be a flat, naked pancake before they realize I’ve been telling the truth all along.”
The coldness in her voice sends shivers through me. How can she be so nonchalant? Would they really do such a monstrous thing? Surely not. I think of the psychological experiments I read about in college, the experiments JoAnne and I talked about during late-night study sessions—experiments so cruel the subjects still experienced nightmares and fractured personalities years later. One of our professors even had us design hypothetical experiments in obedience. Back then, it all seemed so abstract.
“JoAnne, what do they think you’re lying about?”
“They think I’m having an affair with you. Not just you—others too. Neil found a schedule on my phone. He misinterpreted it. He thought I was having a secret rendezvous at the Hillsdale mall.”
“That’s bullshit!” I say, too loudly.
“Isn’t it?” she agrees. “How romantic. The Hillsdale mall. The irony is, he’s worried that I’m fucking you, and his punishment is to send me away and have me put in a box, naked, with you. He’s both paranoid and stupid.”
Before I can reply, the door opens. Gordon stands just outside the glass, on the top step, looking angry.
“Are you going to be okay?” I ask JoAnne. A ridiculous question. Of course she is not going to be okay.
She hugs her knees to her chest again. “Don’t worry about me,” she says drily. “Haven’t they told you? Everyone comes here of their own free will. We’re all just salivating for reeducation. Really, they’re doing me a favor.”
She glares up at Gordon, defiant.
“Time’s up,” Gordon says.
I step out of the box and down the steps, and follow Gordon to the door. I glance back. JoAnne is now standing, facing me, palms pressed against the glass wall.
I grab Gordon’s arm. “We can’t leave her here.”
But before I have a chance to say anything else, I feel something slam against the back of my knees. My legs buckle and I go down. My head slams against the concrete floor, and everything goes dark.
58
I come to on a Cessna, bumping through the air. My head is throbbing, and there is blood on my shirt. I have no idea how much time has passed. I look at my hands, expecting to see restraints, but there are none. Just an ordinary seatbelt looped around my waist. Who strapped me in? I don’t even remember boarding the plane.
Through the open door of the cockpit, I see the back of the pilot’s head. It’s just the two of us. There is snow in the mountains, wind buffeting the plane. The pilot seems completely focused on his controls, shoulders tense.
I reach up and touch my head. The blood has dried, leaving a sticky mess. My stomach rumbles. The last thing I ate was the French toast. How long ago was that? On the seat beside me, I find water and a sandwich wrapped in wax paper. I open the bottle and drink.
I unwrap my sandwich—ham and Swiss—and take a bite. Shit. My jaw hurts too much to chew. Someone must have punched me in the face after I hit the ground.
“Are we going home?” I ask the pilot.
“Depends on what you call home. We’re headed to Half Moon Bay.”
“They didn’t tell you anything about me?”
“First name, destination, that’s about it. I’m just the taxi driver, Jake.”
“But you’re a member, right?”
“Sure,” he says, his tone unreadable. “Fidelity to the spouse, loyalty to The Pact. Till death do us part.” He turns back just long enough to give me a look that tells me not to ask any more questions.
We hit an air pocket so hard my sandwich goes flying. An urgent beeping erupts. The pilot curses and frantically pushes buttons. He shouts something to air traffic control. We’re descending fast, and I’m clutching the armrests, thinking of Alice, going over our final conversation, wishing I’d said so many things.
Then, suddenly, the plane levels out, we gain altitude, and all appears to be well. I gather the pieces of my sandwich from the floor, wrap the whole mess back up in the wax paper, and set it on the seat beside me.
“Sorry for the turbulence,” the pilot says.
“Not your fault. Good save.”
Over sunny Sacramento, he finally relaxes, and we talk about the Golden State Warriors and their surprising run this season.
“What day is it?” I ask.
“Tuesday.”
I’m relieved to see the familiar coastline out my window, grateful for the sight of the little Half Moon Bay Airport. The landing is smooth. Once we touch down, the pilot turns and says, “Don’t make it a habit, right?”
“I don’t plan to.”
I grab my bag and step outside. Without killing the engines, the pilot closes the door, swings the plane around, and takes off again.
I walk into the airport café, order a hot chocolate, and text Alice. It’s two P.M. on a weekday, so she’s probably embroiled in a thousand meetings. I really need to see her.
A text reply arrives. Where are you?
Back in HMB.
Will leave in 5.
It’s more than twenty miles from Alice’s office to Half Moon Bay. She texts about traffic downtown, so I order French toast and bacon. The café is empty. The perky waitress in the perfectly pressed uniform hovers. When I pay the check, she says, “Have a good day, Friend.”
I go outside and sit on a bench to wait. It’s cold, the fog coming down in waves. By the time Alice’s old Jaguar pulls up, I’m frozen. I stand up, and as I’m checking to make sure I have everything, Alice walks over to the bench. She’s wearing a serious suit, but she has changed out of heels into sneakers for the drive. Her black hair is damp in the fog. Her lips are dark red, and I wonder if she did this for me. I hope so.
She stands on her tiptoes to kiss me. Only then do I realize how desperately I’ve missed her. Then she steps back and looks me up and down.
“At least you’re in one piece.” She reaches up and touches my jaw gently. “What happened?”
“Not sure.”
I wrap my arms around her.
“So why were you summoned?”
There’s so much I want to tell her, but I’m scared. The more she knows, the more dangerous it will be for her. Also, let’s face it, the truth is going to piss her off.
What I’d give to go back to the beginning—before the wedding, before Finnegan, before The Pact turned our lives upside down.
“Do you have time?”
“Sure. Can you drive? I can’t see in this fog.” She tosses me the keys.
I put my duffel in the trunk, get into the driver’s seat, and lean over to unlock the passenger-side door. I pull back onto the highway. At Pillar Point Harbor, I turn toward the ocean. I park across the street from Barbara’s Fishtrap, looking around to make sure we haven’t been followed.
“You okay?” Alice asks.