“Calm down,” the woman in white says. “This won’t necessarily hurt. Remember the equation.”
I close my eyes and tense up, waiting for them to drop it, crushing me. This could all be over soon. A horrific death. Is that what this is? An execution? Do they plan suffocation, or worse? Or is this more of the same—fear tactics, mental cruelty, empty threat?
The plexiglass hovers six inches above me.
“Please,” I plead, disgusted by the weakness in my voice.
What would it say in the news? Man disappears while kayaking. Or maybe there would be no news. Maybe it would be a routine medical ailment. Man dies of liver failure. Aneurysm. There is no limit to what they could say, no one to contest their story. Except Alice. God, Alice. Please leave her alone.
But they won’t leave her alone. They’ll marry her off. Who will they find for her? Someone whose spouse has met a similar fate?
Neil, I think. What if this is all an elaborate ploy, devised by Neil, so that he can be rid of JoAnne, married to Alice? Bile rises in my throat. Then, the glass lowers.
71
I wait for the pressure of the glass, but it doesn’t come. I hear a drill, and I realize that they are fastening the piece just above me on all four corners. My frantic breathing fogs up everything, and soon I can’t see.
The drilling stops, and it is quiet. One of the women counts, “One, two, three, four.” I feel myself being lifted. And then I am upright, suspended inside the plexiglass, arms by my sides, legs slightly spread, feet standing on the wooden blocks, head facing forward. In front of me, a blank white wall. I can sense the others behind me, but I can’t see them. I feel like an organism trapped between slides, waiting to go under the microscope.
The floor shudders beneath me, and I realize that the plexiglass structure is on wheels. I squeeze my eyes shut and force myself to breathe. When I open them, I see that I am being rolled down a narrow hallway. People walk past us, glancing at my naked body. Some pass to the front, others pass behind me. I am rolled into a freight elevator, the heavy doors close, and we rise. I’m not sure if the woman in white is still with us. Or the blond woman. It seems my handlers are standing behind me.
“Maurie?” I say. “Where are we going? What’s happening?”
“Maurie’s gone,” a voice replies. A male voice.
I think of Alice’s face just before they pulled the blinders on. I think of her hand on my chest when I wore the straitjacket, how the release of that reassuring pressure was such a jolt. How, in the past few hours, my life has been turned on end. Everything has been taken away from me, piece by piece.
I want to weep, but I have no tears. I want to scream, but I know now that my screams will change nothing.
I hold my breath just long enough to clear the plexiglass in front of my eyes. As the elevator doors open, I realize that we are in a cavernous room. I remember this room from my first visit to Fernley: the cafeteria.
I hear footsteps receding, and I am left here alone, staring straight ahead through the fogged plexiglass.
I listen, but don’t hear anything. I try to move but can’t. After a few minutes, I can’t feel my legs, then I can’t feel my arms, then I close my eyes. I am nothing more than my detached thoughts. I have lost my will to fight.
It occurs to me now, at last, that this was their plan: to strip me of my bravado, to strip me of all hope.
Time passes. How much time? My thoughts drift to Alice, to Ocean Beach, to our wedding. To the image of her there in our garage with Eric, singing.
I try to push away the thought. But I can’t. How silly of me, this jealousy at this moment. The truth is, when I’m gone, if I’m gone, she won’t be free to be with Eric, even if she wants to. She’ll still be at the mercy of The Pact and their random decisions. Probably for the rest of her life.
I long for voices, or even just a sound. A scrap of music. What I’d give to see Gordon right now. Or Declan. Or even Vivian. Just another human being. Anyone. Is this the very definition of loneliness? It must be.
At some point, I hear the elevator open. Relief floods through me. There are voices—two, maybe three—and the floor begins to vibrate. Something heavy is rolling toward me. I keep waiting for it to come into view, but it doesn’t. Then the voices fade down the hallway. The elevator dings again, more voices, and again something rolls down the hallway.
An upright plexiglass contraption, just like the one I’m in.
Inside it, there is a female figure. Brunette, medium build; like me, nude. The glass in front of her face is fogged, so I can’t make out her features. They wheel her into place diagonally across from me. Footsteps move away from us, voices fading. The elevator. More voices. Another plexiglass structure. I can’t see it, but I can hear it.
There are three of us now. Sensing that we are alone, that all of our handlers are gone, I gather my courage and speak. “Are you both okay?” I ask quietly.
I hear the woman’s sobs.
And then, to my right, a man’s voice: “What do you think they’ll do to us?”
“It’s your fault!” the woman cries. “I told you we’d get caught!”
“Shh,” the man warns, and it dawns on me that she is talking to him. They know each other. “What’s your fault?” I whisper.
A voice comes over the loudspeaker: “Will the inmates please refrain from discussing their crimes?”
An older man in a white cook’s uniform passes between us. “Well, you three have sure gotten yourselves into a pickle,” he says, looking directly at me. Then he walks away.
A minute later, the elevator dings. As another plexiglass cage slides past me, I see a naked woman, her back to me, her hair gnarled and greasy. I think it can only be one person. The guards spin the plexiglass around, and in an instant she is facing me, six feet away. The woman is pale and thin. She looks like she hasn’t seen the sun in weeks. Fog covers the area where her eyes are, so it is moments before the glass clears and she sees me. No, it is not JoAnne. What have they done with JoAnne?
I hear the rumble of many footsteps. In an instant a long line of prisoners in red jumpsuits and employees in gray uniforms are streaming into the cafeteria. Then, all at once, I understand the point of this whole horrific exercise. The four of us are positioned in such a way that everyone has to walk between us to get to the food line. I try to make eye contact with the woman across from me, but her eyes are squeezed shut, tears trickling down her cheeks.
The line stops. I hear the rattle of trays and silverware, workers barking orders. The line backs up as more prisoners pour in—how many? How can so many Friends have gotten on the wrong side of The Pact?