by Matt Brolly
‘Listen, Rose. If you don’t trust me by now, you’ll never be able to. If I was reporting back to Miller then you’d be off this case already. I’m a company man, Rose, but I’m a loyal partner.’ McBride took off his shades, and looked at her.
Rose couldn’t help laughing. ‘Ok, so you fancy a trip to this dead zone, partner?’ she said.
McBride placed his shades back on. ‘Just the two of us?’
‘Just the two of us.’
55
Lynch practiced in the dark. On his front, pretending to sleep, he moved the metal clip from his wrist to his hand and back again. He’d practiced similar maneuvers before, successfully escaping from various forms of metal cuffs. It was an art he’d learned early in his career for such a situation as this, one almost made redundant by the ubiquitous flexi-cuffs favored nowadays. Fortunately, the same type of cuff was used on him each time the cell door was opened. A metal chain-linked cuff he believed he could pick.
When not practicing, he spent his time exercising. High explosive movements – push ups, sit ups, squats, conducted as fast as possible to get his heart pumping. Loosening the cuffs was a minor part of the operation; what he did once the cuffs were off was pivotal.
Although he didn’t know when his next opportunity would arise, he decided not to make a move when Ethan knocked on the cell door later that day. The moment wasn’t right. Lynch fed his arms back through the trapdoor as instructed. When Ethan was inside the cell and out of sight, Lynch let the metal shard fall into his palm in one swift movement. He placed it inside the keyhole, testing that it would fit the lock before rolling it back up his sleeve.
‘How was your meeting?’ asked Ethan, sitting on the stone floor.
Lynch pulled his arms back and shuffled forward so he was opposite the young guard. ‘Bizarre. What’s with all the fish?’
‘You tell me,’ said Ethan, with a laugh.
On the outside, Ethan wouldn’t have any problem integrating. He had an easy manner, was likable in a geeky sort of way. ‘You ever wonder?’ said Lynch.
‘All the time,’ said Ethan, not taking the bait.
‘Seriously. You ever wonder what would happen when he has a change of heart.’
‘The Controller?’
‘I thought he was Mr Mallard to you.’
Ethan shrugged.
‘Okay, what do you think will happen to you when the Controller has had enough of you?’
‘That would be the end, I guess,’ said Ethan, as if he’d not thought of it before.
‘The end?’
‘This is it, Mr Lynch. I understood that the day I entered here.’
‘And that doesn’t bother you?’
‘What’s that line? Better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all?’
‘Tennyson, Ethan, I’m impressed.’
The young man no longer looked so young. His expression changed, his face growing serious. ‘The Controller gave it to me straight. He offered me paradise, with the proviso that it wouldn’t last forever. Is it better to have paradise and lose it than never to have it all? No brainer for me.’
‘This is your paradise.’
‘No offence, but sitting here with you? No. But the other stuff?’ Ethan’s face changed again, a dreamy faraway look. ‘It’s better than I could have imagined.’
Lynch didn’t want to imagine what could fill the young man with such pleasure. He glanced over at the remains of Daniel’s sweater. ‘You know where that came from?’
‘No, and I don’t want to know.’
Lynch continued, regardless of Ethan’s objections. ‘It belongs to my son. He was abducted by the Controller six years ago.’
Ethan sighed. ‘I said I didn’t want to know.’
‘The Controller says he’s here.’
Ethan stood up. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Lynch. I don’t know anything about that. There are a lot of people here. A lot,’ he repeated, for emphasis.
‘I don’t know what you’re up to, Ethan, but you could help me.’
‘I’m sorry, man, I can’t,’ said Ethan, a hint of sadness in his eyes as he shut the cell door.
Ethan pressed his hands on his wrists as he unlocked the cuffs. Lynch couldn’t tell if it was a sign of solidarity, but he knew what he would do the next time it happened.
56
Rose and McBride left for Otisville the following morning. Abigail’s phone was switched off and Rose had phoned her mother’s hospital three times in the last twenty-four hours, each time receiving the same non-committal response, that her mother was stable. The rest of her time she’d spent researching St Bernadette’s church; it seemed Haig hadn’t been lying. The place was written out of history. The only proof it ever existed was the flimsy paperback recovered at Haig’s house, and the images they’d seen on the drone surveillance.
McBride had spent the day searching for the owners of the restricted land. The records were classified and together they decided that pushing Miller for help was a pointless exercise.
At best, it was an optimistic journey; at worst, foolhardy and unprofessional. McBride picked her up outside her building, surprising her with the amount of artillery he’d stored in his trunk.
‘You planning on going to war?’ she asked the agent.
‘I’m planning on going into the unknown,’ he replied, and six hours later that was exactly where they were.
The GPS signal started fading in and out as they reached the threshold near Otisville. From there, they navigated by paper map and compass, using the information uncovered by Bainbridge’s drone. Thirty minutes in, the road was little more than a dirt track, the vehicle’s suspension taking brutal punishment as McBride meandered through potholes and random outcrops. ‘You think Gunn used to travel to this church?’ said McBride.
‘Don’t you?’ said Rose, no longer knowing what she believed. McBride had led her to Bainbridge and his drone, so she clung to her belief that he could be trusted. Aside from that, there was no one else but Lynch. Everything pointed to the church.
McBride pulled over. There was no shade and they ate their prepared lunch in the car, alone in the desert void. ‘Where do you think we are?’ he asked, holding up the map.
Rose pointed to the map. ‘We should come to the fence in the next few miles.’
McBride drowned the remains of his water. ‘Best get going then.’
They reached the fence thirty minutes later. It split the land in two, stretching in either direction as far as the eye could see. ‘We could be forgiven for being suspicious at this point,’ said Rose, as McBride drove northwest.
The vehicle curved inwards to the left as they eased along the dirt track. ‘Pull over,’ said Rose, after they’d been travelling for another twenty minutes.
A blast of heat hit her as she opened the door, a lining of sweat coating her skin in seconds. With the engine switched off, a peculiar silence descended over the area. Rose strained her ears to pick up any sounds, the chatter of insects, distant traffic, birds circling above, but heard nothing. She threw a stone at the fence to confirm it wasn’t electric. It clattered against the wire, making a satisfactory clanging noise.
‘We could cut through that easy enough,’ said McBride.
Rose jumped at the sound of McBride’s voice, as if it had no place in the silence of their shared wilderness. She used her binoculars to scan the space beyond the fence but all she saw was endless barren land. ‘Let’s keep driving. There must be an entrance at some point.’
She realized what had been bothering her as McBride started the engine and set off again. The place reminded her of the compound and her heart sank to think they might be trying to break into an area belonging to their own organization.
Minutes later, the sight of armed guards suggested she would soon have an answer.
McBride slowed the vehicle as Rose checked her weapon. She noted four guards, dressed in khaki fatigues, each holding machine guns. They were looking their way but were unconcerned by their
presence as if expecting them.
McBride stopped a hundred yards from the entrance and together they left the vehicle. As they approached, the sound of their feet crunching on the stones beneath them, one of the guards moved towards the gate.
‘Afternoon, Ma’am, Sir,’ said the guard. He didn’t smile but there was nothing threatening about his greeting. He had the professional, polished deference of an experienced military operative. ‘What brings you here?’
Rose kept her focus on the three guards behind him as she withdrew her badge. ‘Special Agent Rose, Special Agent McBride.’
The guard nodded but didn’t glance down at her badge. ‘How may I help you?’
‘You can start by telling me what is beyond this gate.’
A hint of a smile formed on the guard’s face, disappearing before it could fully form. ‘Unless you have some paperwork to back up that request, then I’m afraid I can’t help you.’
The guard held her gaze suggesting he wasn’t to be moved. ‘Military or civilian?’ asked Rose.
‘Again, Ma’am, I’m not in a position to answer that question.’
Rose glanced at McBride who was staring hard at the guard from behind his sunglasses. ‘You going to stop us if we come through that gate?’ said McBride.
‘This is private land, sir. I would advise you not to trespass.’ One of the other guards walked over and handed the first guard a piece of paper. ‘Here,’ said Guard One, pushing the piece of paper through chain-linked fence. ‘A route out of here. You’ll find it quicker than the one you took to get here.’
McBride smirked as he took the paper. ‘You work for Mallard, don’t you?’
‘Sir, as I said…’
McBride held up his hand. ‘I hear you.’
They retreated to the car, Rose shivering at the blast of cold air from the vehicle’s air conditioning. ‘What the hell is going on here, McBride?’ she said.
‘What did you expect? We knew it was gated and restricted.’
‘That’s helpful, partner.’
‘Sorry, that guard got to me. They knew we were coming.’
Rose agreed. Did they know about the drone? Had they been watching them ever since they’d arrived in Otisville? The constant theme from that first day at the Gunn house was the sense that those responsible were always in the know. ‘Let’s go,’ she said.
‘Where?’
‘We’ll drive the whole perimeter of this thing if we have to. I want to see that church.’
57
Ethan returned sooner than Lynch anticipated. Lynch fed his arms into the trapdoor without being asked, Ethan applying the same pressure on his wrist as before.
‘What is it?’ asked Lynch.
Even in the dim light of the cell, Lynch could see the color had left Ethan’s face. ‘He wants to see you.’
‘Who, Mallard?’
‘The Controller, yes.’
Had Ethan done something wrong? It was conceivable he shouldn’t have been in dialogue with Lynch during the period of his incarceration. It would explain the fear in the young man’s eyes, the quiver in his voice as he said, “The Controller.”’ Maybe it was his training, but Lynch couldn’t help but fear for Ethan. He reminded himself that Ethan was his captor, that each day he cuffed him before leaving food for him like an animal. Furthermore, he remembered the look of glee in the man’s eyes when he’d described his experience here as paradise. Despite all this, Lynch couldn’t shake the feeling that the man was here, at least in part, under duress. He didn’t want anything to happen to Ethan because of him.
‘You in trouble?’ he asked, as Ethan led him from the cell.
‘Nothing like that.’
Lynch felt the paperclip nestled into his grime sodden shirt. Had he missed his last opportunity to use it? Ethan led him back to the Controller, using a different route. Lynch mapped it in his head, noting the differing turns and changes of direction that led to the same destination of the peculiar aquarium.
‘Good luck,’ said Ethan, guiding him through the entrance.
The room was empty and Lynch moved towards the glass tank. Monsters and their pets, he thought, at the sight of multi-colored fish in their prison.
‘Impressive, are they not?’
The Controller’s voice echoed in the room, as loud and pronounced as a Shakespearian actor on stage.
Lynch turned to face the man, and did his best not to react to what he saw.
Mallard was stripped to his underwear. Every inch of skin below his collarbone was covered in tattoos. Lynch tried not to stare but he estimated hundreds if not thousands of tiny
dark blue strikes on the man. Each miniscule horizontal dash a railroad sleeper, attached to separate parallel lines snaking across his body. Mallard’s skin resembled a perverse railroad map, the hundreds of various lines intersecting and overlapping until it was hard to determine where one line began and the other ended. Lynch shuddered, remembering each horizontal dash represented the life of a human being.
‘My life’s work,’ said Mallard, appalling Lynch by spinning on the spot.
‘You think I care?’ said Lynch.
‘You care. You have an idea of what these lines represent. You understood long before anyone else, even if your grasp of their significance is minimal.’
For the first time since he’d met him, Mallard was truly animated. It was the first glimpse to this side of the man Lynch had witnessed. He was still controlled, still spoke in his resonant, hypnotic voice, but his words contained a sense of enthusiasm Lynch had not yet encountered. Was this the weakness he’d been searching for? ‘I have nothing much better to do, Mallard. Why don’t you humor me?’
‘Do you know how hard it is to receive one of these?’ he said, pointing to one of the marks on his arm.
Lynch moved closer, examined the raised skin on the man’s flesh. He was a walking map of scar tissue. Lynch pictured the railway maps in his apartment, the missing people in the state of Texas who had disappeared by railroad lines, the thousands more nationwide. ‘Whoever you’re using could do with refinement work. Not the cleanest marks.’
Mallard smiled. Again, Lynch wondered how many people had been seduced by that simple gesture. ‘That, as you know, is not the point. The theory, I believe, is that we receive a mark, a track, for everyone we kill?’
‘Working theory I guess,’ said Lynch. ‘I always thought it a little old hat myself. Reminded me of those pathetic inmates with their tear-drop tattoos.’
Mallard sighed, unhappy with the comparison. ‘Working theory. Very good. Samuel. Let me put that theory to rest. Let’s take Mr Razinski as an example. He was a useful associate until the end. He earned a number of these marks. But what transpired at the Gunn house.’ Mallard shook his head as if disgusted. ‘That wouldn’t have earned him anything.’
‘Multiple homicide and decapitation not enough?’
‘You jest but you have reached the correct conclusion. Anyone can kill. You, in particular, should understand that. No, to receive one of these you must do something a little more. It’s obviously going to prove too hard to explain, so why don’t I show you.’
Mallard placed his hand against the wall, pushing a button Lynch hadn’t noticed. The wall moved apart revealing a glass partition. Lynch moved to the glass, entranced and appalled by what he saw beyond.
Even before it touched the cold surface, his face was coated in tears.
Alone in the cell, malnourished and blank-eyed, was Daniel.
58
Lynch banged on the glass but Daniel didn’t look up. Razinski’s words rang in his ears.
You wouldn’t want to see him now.
His boy was skeletal thin - his rib cage visible, his arms and legs little more than skin-covered twigs – but that was the least of it. Lynch didn’t want to look away, he’d waited so long for this moment, but it pained him to look at his son. Daniel had lost his sight. More correctly, his sight had been taken from him. So many traumatizing thoughts rushed through
Lynch’s mind that he became overwhelmed. What had they done to his boy? Daniel rocked from side to side and every fiber, every inch of Lynch ached at the sight.
The sound started somewhere deep within him, a place he’d never accessed before. It reverberated around his body as his face stayed glued to the glass panel. Lynch fought the dizziness as his roar reached its crescendo. He didn’t think. His hands still cuffed behind him, he turned and rushed at Mallard his forehead striking the man’s nose with one swift movement.
Mallard staggered but didn’t fall backwards. Momentarily surprised by Lynch’s attack, he stepped back and wiped the blood from his face. ‘Good shot,’ he said, laughing.
Lynch didn’t stop. He moved towards the man, invading his space, trying to deliver blows with the only options left open to him - his head, knees, and feet – but Mallard sidestepped him with ease.
‘We need to talk, Samuel. I understand that. But first you must calm down.’ Mallard pressed a button, and the glass screen vanished.
‘No,’ screamed Lynch, as he sought a final glimpse of Daniel.
‘Now, now, Samuel. He’ll still be there when we’ve finished talking.’
Lynch fell to his knees. The world span in and out of view as conflicting desires rushed him: he wanted to die, to end the suffering that would never leave him; he wanted to free himself from the cuffs, and slaughter Mallard and his malignant friends where they stood; but ultimately he wanted to reach Daniel. He wanted to hold his son, kiss him, apologise, try to make him believe that it would be OK, that he could take him away from all this. The thought that the last of these would probably prove to be impossible only served to intensify his torment.
Time slipped by. Lynch found himself in a second room. Had he failed to notice he’d been carried away? He was sitting on a leather chair, coated in a film of plastic. His hands were still tied but the glamorous waitress arrived and offered him a sip of water that he accepted with a nod.
Seeing Daniel again should have been the greatest moment of his live. It was everything he’d strived for in the last six years. He should have prepared himself better. He thought back to Special Agent Lennox banging at his door, sparking the hope that Daniel was alive. It was only then that he’d truly begun to believe again. Before, although he’d not fully admitted it, the logical conclusion was that Daniel had died and that he was chasing his abductors. With the news that Daniel was alive – however dubious the source – he should have thought more about what that meant. Only now did he fully appreciate that he still thought of Daniel as the seven-year-old boy who’d gone missing. For his own sanity, he’d blanked out thoughts of what the last six years might have done to his son and a horrendous thought crossed his mind.
