Time served. That means I’m getting out. Relief makes my knees buckle.
But then he continues: “Because I’m uncomfortable with the size of your file and the accusations contained within, and because something in my gut tells me you are at risk to become a repeat offender, I am also going to order the following suspended sentence: one year home monitoring, one year mobile incarceration level one, and thirty days at Fernley, to be served consecutively. Although I have suspended this sentence for now, let it stand as motivation each day to follow the correct path. If at any time it comes to my attention that you have begun questioning The Pact, if I discover that you’ve been pursuing further conversations or conducting similar inappropriate research into past or present enemies of The Pact, you’ll find yourself right back here. And I assure you, Jake, the punishments to which you’ve been subjected will seem, in hindsight, like child’s play.”
I look straight ahead, trying not to show my fear. Inside, my heart is sinking. Will I never be free?
“Jake,” the judge continues, “I don’t know the truth regarding the accusations contained in your file, and I’m not going to ask you. To be blunt, your attitude disturbs me. The Pact and your marriage are one and the same. Without respect and submission, there will be no success. You have been a member for only a short time, so I have shown lenience. But as you can see, my leniency has a limit. The Pact exists above us, with no man rising higher. Make your peace with The Pact. Do it now—not five years from now, not ten years from now—for your own good. We’re not going anywhere. Look around you. The walls of this institution are strong; the influence of its people are stronger. The Pact casts a shadow wider than you know. Most of all, we have a complete and unwavering belief in the rightness of our mission. Find your position within The Pact, find your position within your marriage, and you will find your own daily reward.”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
The judge whacks his gavel, stands, and departs.
Elizabeth and I collect our things and wait for the courtroom to clear. When the stenographer has finally packed up her machine and departed, I turn to Elizabeth. “What is ‘mobile incarceration level one’?”
“That’s something I’m going to have to find out.” She looks grave and deeply concerned. “I don’t know what you did, or who you pissed off, but you need to make it right. If you wind up back here, I don’t think anyone will be able to help you.”
I find myself standing alone with Elizabeth in the hallway in front of the courtroom. One wall is lined with black-and-white photographs of Orla. She poses above a rugged coastline, in front of a cottage obscured by fog. The other wall is lined with black-and-white photos of couples on their wedding day. Important people. Surely, none of these people knew, when these photos were taken, what they were getting into.
Elizabeth’s phone vibrates. She looks at a text message. “Your plane is ready,” she says, leading me toward yet another door.
The light of the outer room blinds me for a few seconds, and then I realize we are at the very place where I entered this nightmare. Fernley suddenly reminds me of the rides I loved when the carnival came to the fairgrounds: part tunnel of love, part funhouse, all terrifying. A guard hands me a sealed plastic bag containing my meager possessions.
“This is where we part,” Elizabeth says.
I sense she wants to give me a hug. Instead, she takes a step back. “Safe travels, Friend.”
I step inside the men’s room, quickly shed my jumpsuit, and put on my street clothes. On my way out, I pass a mirror. The view is startling. I glance behind me, half-expecting to see a bald stranger, but then I realize that the alien in the reflection is me.
I walk out of the bathroom, still not completely convinced they’re going to just let me go. But the double front doors open for me. I head down the long hallway toward the runway. I’m tempted to run, but I don’t want to give the impression that they’ve made a mistake. When I get to the final gate, I can see a Cessna—my plane, I hope—sitting on the runway.
I turn the handle on the gate, but it’s locked. I glance at the security camera, but nothing happens. Time passes. Being trapped at the locked gate makes me increasingly nervous.
A larger plane touches down on the runway and comes to a stop near the Cessna. The noise of the plane engine dies down, and a door slowly opens. A van rounds the corner and pulls up next to it. The van door slides open, and two young women in matching navy dresses step out. Not women, really. They don’t look a day older than seventeen. Their uniforms are tighter and shorter than the ones everyone else wears. I sense they’re some kind of special welcoming party.
I see a golf cart on the horizon, moving toward us. The driver is female, and the passenger is a man in a suit. A foot in a prison slipper emerges from the van. The hem on the red jumpsuit gets caught on the door and slides up, revealing a bare ankle. I’m not sure how, but I know it is JoAnne.
Two thin arms emerge, shackled at the wrists. Then a head, covered in a black hood. The two young women take her by the arms and guide her toward the larger plane. As JoAnne hobbles across the tarmac, the black hood swivels in my direction. Can she see me? I am horrified, mesmerized, watching her shuffle toward the awaiting plane. Did I do this to her?
She struggles up the ramp and disappears into the plane.
The golf cart comes to a stop just beyond the gate. The man gets out and stands, his back to me, just a foot away. Expensively tailored suit, Italian shoes. For a minute, no one moves.
Finally, the man in the suit turns. Neil.
“Hello, Jake,” he says, pulling a key ring out of his pocket. “Did you enjoy your stay?” The ring holds a single key.
“Not entirely.”
“Next time, Jake, we won’t be quite so hospitable.”
The key glints in the sun, sending splinters of light across his suit. The fabric has an unpleasant sheen. His forehead has clearly been injected with Botox many times. I can’t imagine what JoAnne ever saw in him.
He looks directly into my eyes. “When a rule is broken,” Neil says, “the price must be paid. It is only then that balance is restored, equality returns, and the Pact, like a marriage, can move on.” He puts the key in the slot but doesn’t turn it. “Things are seriously out of balance, thanks to you. You and Alice are out of balance, JoAnne and I are out of balance, and more important, The Pact is out of balance.”
Neil turns the key and the gate slides open.
“I will not rest until balance is restored. Understand?”
I don’t reply.
There is something in his voice, something familiar. “You’ll find the plane is well equipped.” Then from behind me, I hear him say, “Dr Pepper, Jake?”