If I had made different choices at any of those crucial junctures, then Alice would not be standing here, terrified and crying.
Diane pulls the final strap between my legs and fastens it to a buckle halfway up my back. She is behind me now, and so is Declan. I can’t see them, but I can hear chains rattling, and I feel Diane sliding them through loops around my waist, then leaning down to attach the chains to a pair of restraints that she clicks around my ankles.
I can’t move my arms. I can barely move my legs. Alice is sobbing.
“I appreciate you two being so cooperative,” Declan says. “Diane and I were both happy to have drawn this assignment.”
It occurs to me that Declan may not even be in The Pact. Is this merely a job for him?
Diane is fishing through the canvas bag.
“Is there anything you two want to say to each other before we go?” Declan asks.
Alice doesn’t hesitate. She runs to me and gives me a long, soft kiss. I can taste the saltiness of her tears when she kisses me. “I love you so much,” she murmurs. “Be careful.”
“I love you.” I hope that my words convey all of what I’m feeling. I long to hug her, feel her in my arms. I wish I could backtrack to fifteen minutes ago, just the two of us together, Alice singing. If only we had checked the email when it dinged, if only she had answered the phone the first time it rang, maybe we could have escaped. Maybe we would be on 280 by now, speeding south, away from here.
How unforgivably stupid we’ve been. How innocent and na?ve.
Then I see the fear in Alice’s eyes, and I suddenly know there is more, and it is not good.
“This can’t be necessary,” Alice protests. Her voice trembles.
Hearing her fear makes it all much more scary.
“I’m afraid so,” Declan responds. “I’m sorry.” It actually sounds like he means it. “This is written into the order. Not sure why, but it is. I need you to open your mouth wide for me.”
“No,” Alice whispers.
But I think of the gun, and I do what he says.
“Wider, please.”
I feel Declan’s hands pull something over my head. A ball gag is forced into my mouth, straps pulling it tight at the edges. As I bite down, I taste metal and dry rubber.
Alice is watching, eyes blank. Declan is fiddling with straps and buckles. Then something comes down over my eyes and I realize I’m wearing blinders, like a horse being fitted for the racetrack. I can see directly in front of me, but nothing on either side. I focus entirely on Alice. I try to speak to her with my eyes. Then something else comes down over my head—a black cloth. I can’t see a thing.
With each step, each descent into the madness of this process, I am struck anew by what I’m losing. Just days ago, I wished we could go back to how we were before—Alice and me, together, happy. Five minutes ago, I wished I could hug her. Sixty seconds ago, that I could speak to her. And now I wish desperately just to see her again. I feel her hand pressing against my chest, through the thick canvas of the straitjacket, but that is all. I’m drowning in the darkness. It is hushed for a moment, just the sound of Alice’s breath, her weeping, and her voice saying urgently, I love you so much. I try to focus on her voice, I hold on to it in my mind, fearful that they will take this too from me, this one last tether to sanity, to Alice.
And then the pressure on my chest—Alice’s hand, that comforting presence—is gone, and I am being led through the kitchen—I can smell the bacon, feel the floor change from hardwood to tile. We are going down the back stairs.
“Jake!” Alice implores.
“Stay here, Alice.” Diane stops to answer her. “This is Jake’s punishment, not yours.”
“When will he be back?” she wails. There is no control in her voice now, no calmness, only desperation.
“Your job now, Alice,” Diane says, “is to go about your business as if everything is normal. Go to work. Above all, if you want to see your husband again, don’t speak to anyone about any of this.”
“Please don’t…,” Alice pleads.
I want to tell her so many things. But my tongue is immobile, my teeth jammed against the metal and rubber. My mouth is dry, my eyes sting. All I can manage is a guttural garble. Five syllables in my throat—I love you, Alice is what I mean to say.
Declan is pushing me roughly into the SUV. All hope drains from me.
As we pull away, I can’t see her but I sense her. I imagine Alice standing there, weeping, willing me to come back to her.
What have we done? Will I ever see my wife again?
66
I can feel the car make a right turn onto Balboa. I can tell from the sound of cars idling around us that the next turn is at a light, so it must be Arguello. I want to convince myself this is only a bad dream, but the chains bite into my ankles and the taste of rubber in my mouth is sickening. I need to try to figure out our route, commit it to memory.
We drive for some time before we come to a halt, and I know from the noise that we’re in Bay Bridge traffic. Then I can feel the bridge under the wheels. I can sense a change in the light in front of my face; then, without warning, the black cloth is lifted. I see the back of Declan’s head in the driver’s seat, Diane’s profile. A partition rises between the backseat and the front seat. From the darkness of the car, it’s obvious that the windows must be blacked out.
We start moving, more rapidly this time, and there is the rumble of the Yerba Buena Island tunnel. I sense a quiet movement beside me. I struggle to turn my head. In the shadows, I’m startled to discover a small woman sitting beside me. She’s in her fifties, I think. Like me, she’s wearing a seatbelt over a straitjacket, although she is not in head restraints. How long has she been staring at me? She gives me a sympathetic look. The sympathy is mostly in her eyes, but there is also a rigid smile, like she’s trying to convey that she understands what I’m feeling. I attempt to smile back, but I cannot move my lips. My mouth is so dry, it hurts. To be polite I should look away, perhaps, but I don’t. The woman looks wealthy—the well-done injections, the diamond earrings—but her glossy hair, mussed in spots, betrays some sort of a struggle.
I lean my head back clumsily, constrained by the straitjacket. I think of Alice.