We enter a hallway that leads to a stairwell. The stairwell leads to another hallway, then that hallway leads us through a laundry area, the air thick with steam. Seeing us, the workers all stop what they’re doing and stare. Up more stairs, down other hallways, through more locked doors, all with complicated keypads, each door in the maze slamming shut behind us.
The place is empty, hushed, save for the slamming doors and the echo of our shoes. The man is not speaking to me. I imagine that my refusal to shake his hand only made things worse.
But before, when he called me Friend, he seemed so flustered when I did not respond. How can one learn how to play the game when the rules are always changing?
We go through a labyrinth of stairwells into the belly of the building. At one point, we travel through a noisy boiler room, then through a series of storage rooms and up four flights of stairs. Sweat pours into my eyes, blurring my vision. The trip is so long that it becomes almost absurd. The air seems thin, and I struggle to catch my breath. I’m reminded of that first day here, following Gordon. Even before I knew where he was taking me, I realized that escape was impossible. Throughout, my guide says nothing.
Finally, a series of locked doors, a mantrap, and a metal detector lead into the longest hallway I’ve ever seen. The concrete floors give way to plush carpet, and dazzling light flows in from many windows. I lift my hand to shield my eyes against the glare. Behind us, I can still hear the quiet footsteps of the tall man’s size-fifteen shoes. As we walk, I become aware of a room at the end, a door standing open.
The hallway is so long, the sun through the high windows so blinding, that at first I think I’ve imagined the blaze of red at the far end, standing there in the open doorway. A woman. We are moving toward her. My heart pounds. For an instant, I freeze at the telltale movement, a way she has of holding her elbows as if she is cold. It is all so familiar, my eyes must be tricking me.
But as the distance between us closes, I realize that it is, in fact, exactly who it seems to be.
97
I walk through the open door. She is standing there just inside the room, utterly still, wearing a formal red dress cut to show off her pale shoulders. Her hair is pulled tightly to one side, wound into an elaborate knot. She seems so polished, her makeup more pronounced than I’m used to, her nails perfectly manicured in a deeper red, her jewelry—a single strand of pearls I’ve never seen before and small, shiny earrings—impeccable. As I get closer, she doesn’t say a word.
“I imagine you two would prefer some time alone,” my escort says. He meets my eyes, looking nervous, before walking out of the room, shutting the door behind him. I realize that we must be in the hotel wing. The room contains a king-sized bed, an elegant desk, a window overlooking the desert.
I open my mouth to speak, but no words come. As Alice stands before me, beautiful, I am speechless with happiness and relief.
How long has she been in this room, waiting for me?
Overwhelmed, I reach out and pull her toward me. She slides her arms around my waist and nestles in close. She sighs deeply, and I understand that she too is relieved. I hold her tightly, feeling the warmth of her body, her head on my shoulder. She feels good, but there is this: She doesn’t seem entirely like Alice. Maybe it’s the hair, the makeup, the dress; I’m not sure. I step back for a second. She looks wonderful but different. It is the same Alice, yes, but dressed for a different role, a role in a theater production I’ve never seen.
“I went to Ireland,” I say. “I went to find Orla.”
“And you came back.”
Hearing her voice, I realize this is not a punishment. I have not been led to my doom. Orla was indeed telling the truth.
“We could still make a run for it,” I say.
Alice smiles sadly. “In these shoes?”
She kisses me, long and soft, and for a moment I almost forget where we are.
But then I hear voices, and I pull away. Paranoid, I glance at the corners of the ceiling, looking for a telltale light. I listen for the buzz of equipment. I gaze at the strip of light under the door, looking for signs of movement. I go to the window and look past the ivy-covered fence to the immense desert beyond. Nothing but sand and scrub for miles. It all seems so unreal—for a moment, I am mesmerized by the orange sun hovering over the desert.
When I turn to face the room, Alice is standing before me, naked, the red dress pooled around her feet. Sunlight pours through the window and I stare at my wife in wonder. I see how pale she is, how thin. I wonder if the mark on her ribs is a bruise, days old, or just a trick of the shadows.
I walk to her. She reaches out and unbuttons my shirt, unbuckles my belt, runs her fingernails over my chest. I touch her face, her breasts. Her skin beneath my hands is so warm. I’ve missed her so much.
As my wife pulls me toward her, I cannot help but wonder if this beautiful moment is a dream. Or worse, is it a performance?
For a split second, I have a vision of a small room, video monitors, someone in a drab gray uniform watching us, listening. Alice steps away from me. I watch her move toward the bed. She lies back on the white sheets and opens her arms. “Come here,” she commands, the expression on her face impossible to read.
98
I roll over, reaching for my wife, and realize with a shock that the bed beside me is empty. I jolt up, panicked. But Alice is there, sitting in the chair at the end of the bed, watching me. She is back in the red dress, but her makeup has faded and her careful hairdo has come undone. She looks like herself again.
I ask the question I’ve been avoiding. “Did they hurt you?”
Alice shakes her head. She comes over to sit beside me. “They had me in solitary for two days, maybe longer, then I was moved to this room, no explanation. I’ve been free to roam the grounds as I please.” She gestures toward the window. “But where would I go?”
I get out of bed and am reaching for my clothes on the floor when Alice says, “Look in the closet.”
I slide open the door. There, on velvet hangers, are an impressive suit, a crisp linen shirt, and a Ted Baker tie. On the floor is a shoe box containing shoes of Italian leather. “When I came out of the shower this morning,” Alice says, “all of my clothes were gone. This dress was hanging in the closet. A woman came in to do my hair, makeup, and nails. When I asked her what it was all about, she told me she wasn’t at liberty to say. She seemed nervous.”
I pull on the white shirt, the pants, the jacket. It all fits perfectly. The shoes also appear to have been custom-made for me.
Alice takes a small velvet box from the desk and opens it to reveal two gold cuff links in the shape of the letter P. I hold out my wrists, and she pins them on.
“What now?” I ask.
“I have no idea. Jake, I’m scared.”
I approach the door, half-expecting it to be locked from the outside. But the knob turns and the door opens. As an afterthought, I grab a large glass bottle of water, a futile weapon. Together, we step into the empty hallway.
99