by Stephen King
“Plus the old bag-over-the-head water cure,” Wilholm said. “I never heard of them doing that to any of the kids here, but I wouldn’t put it past them.”
“They’ve got the tank,” Iris said. “That’s their water cure. They put a cap on you and duck you under and take notes. It’s actually better than the shots.” She paused. “At least it was for me.”
“They must swap out the employees in groups,” Ellis said. Mrs. Sigsby thought he was talking more to himself than the others. I bet he does that a lot, she thought. “It’s the only way it would work.”
Stackhouse was nodding. “Good deductions. Damn good. What is he, twelve?”
“Read your report, Trevor.” She pushed a button on her computer and the screen saver appeared: a picture of her twin daughters in their double stroller, taken years before they acquired breasts, smart mouths, and bad boyfriends. Also a bad drug habit, in Judy’s case. “Ruby Red’s been debriefed?”
“By me personally. And when the cops check the kid’s computer, they are going to find he’s been looking at some stories about kids who kill their parents. Not a lot, just two or three.”
“Standard operating procedure, in other words.”
“Yes, ma’am. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.” Stackhouse gave her a grin she thought almost as charming as Wilholm’s when he turned it on at full wattage. Not quite, though. Their Nicky was a true babe magnet. For now, at least. “Do you want to see the team, or just the operation report? Denny Williams is writing it, so it should be fairly readable.”
“If it all went smoothly, just the report. I’ll have Rosalind get it to me.”
“Fine. What about Alvorson? Any intel from her lately?”
“Do you mean are Wilholm and Kalisha canoodling yet?” Sigsby raised an eyebrow. “Is that germane to your security mission, Trevor?”
“I could give Shit One if those two are canoodling. In fact, I’m rooting for them to go ahead and lose their virginity, assuming they still have it, while they’ve got a chance. But from time to time Alvorson does pick up things that are germane to my mission. Like her conversation with the Washington boy.”
Maureen Alvorson, the housekeeper who actually seemed to like and sympathize with the Institute’s young subjects, was in reality a stool pigeon. (Given the little bits of tittle-tattle she brought in, Mrs. Sigsby thought spy too grand a term.) Neither Kalisha nor any of the other TPs had tipped to this, because Maureen was extremely good at keeping her way of making a little extra money far below the surface.
What made her especially valuable was the carefully planted idea that certain areas of the Institute—the south corner of the caff and a small area near the vending machines in the canteen, to name just a couple—were audio surveillance dead zones. Those were the places where Alvorson gleaned the kids’ secrets. Most were paltry things, but sometimes there was a nugget of gold in the dross. The Washington boy, for instance, who had confided to Maureen that he was thinking about committing suicide.
“Nothing lately,” Sigsby said. “I’ll inform you if she passes on something I feel would be of interest to you, Trevor.”
“Okay. I was just asking.”
“Understood. Now please go. I have work to do.”
4
“Fuck this shit,” Nicky said, sitting down at the bench again. He finally brushed the hair out of his eyes. “The ding-dong’s gonna go pretty soon, and I gotta get an eye test and look at the white wall after lunch. Let’s see what you got, Ellis. Make a move.”
Luke had never felt less like playing chess. He had a thousand other questions—mostly about shots for dots—but maybe this wasn’t the time. There was such a thing as information overload, after all. He moved his king’s pawn two squares. Nicky countered. Luke responded with his king’s bishop, threatening Nicky’s king’s bishop’s pawn. After a moment’s hesitation, Nicky moved his queen out four diagonal squares, and that pretty much sealed the deal. Luke moved his own queen, waited for Nicky to make some move that didn’t matter one way or the other, then slid his queen down next to Nicky’s king, nice and cozy.
Nicky frowned at the board. “Checkmate? In four moves? Are you serious?”
Luke shrugged. “It’s called Scholar’s Mate, and it only works if you’re playing white. Next time you’ll see it coming and counter. Best way is to move your queen’s pawn forward two or your king’s pawn forward one.”
“If I do that, can you still beat me?”
“Maybe.” The diplomatic answer. The real one was of course.
“Holy joe.” Nicky was still studying the board. “That’s fucking slick. Who taught you?”
“I read some books.”
Nicky looked up, seeming to really see Luke for the first time, and asked Kalisha’s question. “How smart are you, kid?”
“Smart enough to beat you,” Iris said, which saved Luke having to answer.
At that moment, a soft two-note chime went off: the ding-dong.
“Let’s go to lunch,” Kalisha said. “I’m starving. Come on, Luke. Loser puts the game away.”
Nicky pointed a finger gun at her and mouthed bang bang, but he was smiling as he did it. Luke got up and followed the girls. At the door to the lounge area, George caught up with him and grabbed his arm. Luke knew from his sociology reading (as well as from personal experience) that kids in a group had a tendency to fall into certain easily recognizable pigeonholes. If Nicky Wilholm was this group’s rebel, then George Iles was its class clown. Only now he looked as serious as a heart attack. He spoke low and fast.
“Nick’s cool, I like him and the girls are crazy about him, probably you’ll like him, too, and that’s okay, but don’t make him a role model. He won’t accept that we’re stuck here, but we are, so pick your battles. The dots, for instance. When you seem em, say so. When you don’t, say that. Don’t lie. They know.”
Nicky caught up with them. “Whatcha talkin about, Georgie Boy?”
“He wanted to know where babies come from,” Luke said. “I told him to ask you.”
“Oh Jesus, another fucking comedian. Just what this place needs.” Nicky grabbed Luke by the neck and pretended to strangle him, which Luke hoped was a sign of liking. Maybe even respect. “Come on, let’s eat.”
5
What his new friends called the canteen was part of the lounge, across from the big TV. Luke wanted a close look at the vending machines, but the others were moving briskly and he still didn’t get the chance. He did, however, note the sign Iris had mentioned: PLEASE DRINK RESPONSIBLY. So maybe they hadn’t been just yanking his chain about the booze.
Not Kansas and not Pleasure Island, he thought. It’s Wonderland. Someone came into my room in the middle of the night and pushed me down the rabbit hole.
The caff wasn’t as big as the one at the Broderick School, but almost. The fact that the five of them were the only diners made it seem even bigger. Most of the tables were fourtops, but there were a couple of larger ones in the middle. One of these had been set with five places. A woman in a pink smock top and matching pink trousers came over and filled their water glasses. Like Maureen, she was wearing a nametag. Hers said NORMA.
“How are you, my chickens?” she asked.
“Oh, we’re plucking right along,” George said brightly. “How about you?”
“Doing fine,” Norma said.
“Don’t have a Get Out of Jail Free card on you, by any chance?”
Norma gave him a cruise-control smile and went back through the swinging door that presumably led to the kitchen.
“Why do I bother?” George said. “My best lines are wasted in here. Wasted, I tell you.”
He reached for the stack of menus in the center of the table and handed them around. At the top was the day’s date. Below that was STARTERS (buffalo wings or tomato bisque), ENTREES (bison burger or American chop suey), and FINISHERS (apple pie à la mode or something called Magic Custard Cake). Half a dozen soft drinks were listed.
“You can
get milk, but they don’t bother putting it on the menu,” Kalisha said. “Most kids don’t want it unless they have cereal for breakfast.”
“Is the food really good?” Luke asked. The prosaic nature of the question—as if they were maybe at a Sandals resort where the meals were included—brought back his sense of unreality and dislocation.
“Yes,” Iris said. “Sometimes they weigh us. I’ve put on four pounds.”
“Fattening us up for the kill,” Nicky said. “Like Hansel and Gretel.”
“On Friday nights and Sunday noons there are buffets,” Kalisha said. “All you can eat.”
“Like Hansel and fucking Gretel,” Nicky repeated. He made a half-turn, looking up at a camera in the corner. “Come on back, Norma. I think we’re ready.”
She returned at once, which only increased Luke’s sense of unreality. But when his wings and chop suey came, he ate heartily. He was in a strange place, he was afraid for himself and terrified about what might have happened to his parents, but he was also twelve.
A growing boy.
6
They must have been watching, whoever they were, because Luke had barely finished the last bite of his custard cake before a woman dressed in another of those pink quasi-uniforms appeared at his side. GLADYS, her name badge said. “Luke? Come with me, please.”
He looked at the other four. Kalisha and Iris wouldn’t meet his gaze. Nicky was looking at Gladys, arms once more folded across his chest and wearing a faint smile. “Why don’t you come back later, honey? Like around Christmas. I’ll kick you under the mistletoe.”
She paid no attention. “Luke? Please?”
George was the only one looking directly at him, and what Luke saw on his face made him think of what he’d said before they came in from the playground: Pick your battles. He got up. “See you guys later. I guess.”
Kalisha mouthed soundless words at him: Shots for dots.
Gladys was small and pretty, but for all Luke knew, she was a black belt who could throw him over her shoulder if he gave her any trouble. Even if she wasn’t, they were watching, and he had no doubt reinforcements would show up in a hurry. There was something else, as well, and it was powerful. He had been raised to be polite and obey his elders. Even in this situation, those were hard habits to break.
Gladys led him past the bank of windows Nicky had mentioned. Luke looked out and yes, there was another building out there. He could barely see it through the screening trees, but it was there, all right. Back Half.
He looked over his shoulder before leaving the caff, hoping for some reassurance—a wave, or even a smile from Kalisha would do. There was no wave, and no one was smiling. They were looking at him the way they had in the playground, when he had asked if their parents were alive. Maybe they didn’t know about that, not for sure, but they knew where he was going now. Whatever it was, they had already been through it.
7
“Gosh, what a pretty day, huh?” Gladys said as she led him along the cinderblock corridor and past his room. The corridor continued down another wing—more doors, more rooms—but they turned left, into an annex that appeared to be your basic elevator lobby.
Luke, ordinarily quite good at make-nice conversation, said nothing. He was pretty sure it was what Nicky would do in this situation.
“The bugs, though . . . ooh!” She waved away invisible insects, and laughed. “You’ll want to wear plenty of bug-dope, at least until July.”
“When the dragonflies hatch out.”
“Yes! Exactly!” She trilled a laugh.
“Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.” She waggled her eyebrows, as to say don’t spoil the surprise.
The elevator doors opened. Two men in blue shirts and pants got off. One was JOE, the other HADAD. They both carried iPads.
“Hi, guys,” Gladys said brightly.
“Hey, girl,” Hadad said. “How’s it going?”
“Fine,” Gladys chirped.
“How about you, Luke?” Joe asked. “Adjusting okay?”
Luke said nothing.
“Silent treatment, huh?” Hadad was grinning. “That’s okay for now. Later, maybe not so much. Here’s the thing, Luke—treat us right and we’ll treat you right.”
“Go along to get along,” Joe added. “Words of wisdom. See you later, Gladys?”
“You bet. You owe me a drink.”
“If you say so.”
The men went on their way. Gladys escorted Luke into the elevator. There were no numbers and no buttons. She said, “B,” then produced a card from her pants pocket and waved it at a sensor. The doors shut. The car descended, but not far.
“B,” crooned a soft female voice from overhead. “This is B.”
Gladys waved her card again. The doors opened on a wide hall lit with translucent ceiling panels. Soft music played, what Luke thought of as supermarket music. A few people were moving about, some pushing trolleys with equipment on them, one carrying a wire basket that might have contained blood samples. The doors were marked with numbers, each prefixed with the letter B.
A big operation, Nicky had said. A compound. That had to be right, because if there was an underground B-Level, it stood to reason there must be a C-Level. Maybe even a D and E. You’d say it almost had to be a government installation, Luke thought, but how could they keep an operation this big a secret? Not only is it illegal and unconstitutional, it involves kidnapping children.
They passed an open door, and inside Luke saw what appeared to be a break room. There were tables and vending machines (no sign reading PLEASE DRINK RESPONSIBLY, though). Three people were sitting at one of the tables, a man and two women. They were dressed in regular clothes, jeans and button-up shirts, and drinking coffee. One of the women, the blondish one, seemed familiar. At first he didn’t know why, then he thought of a voice saying Sure, whatever you want. It was the last thing he remembered before waking up here.
“You,” he said, and pointed at her. “It was you.”
The woman said nothing, and her face said nothing. But she looked at him. She was still looking when Gladys closed the door.
“She was the one,” Luke said. “I know she was.”
“Just a little further,” Gladys said. “It won’t take long, then you can go back to your room. You’d probably like to rest. First days can be exhausting.”
“Did you hear me? She was the one who came into my room. She sprayed something in my face.”
No answer, just the smile again. Luke found it a little creepier each time Gladys flashed it.
They reached a door marked B-31. “Behave and you’ll get five tokens,” she said. She reached into her other pocket and brought out a handful of metal circles that looked like quarters, only with an embossed triangle on either side. “See? Got them right here.”
She knocked a knuckle on the door. The blue-clad man who opened it was TONY. He was tall and blond, handsome except for one slightly squinted eye. Luke thought he looked like a villain in a James Bond movie, maybe the suave ski instructor who turned out to be an assassin.
“Hey, pretty lady.” He kissed Gladys on the cheek. “And you’ve got Luke. Hi, Luke.” He stuck out his hand. Luke, channeling Nicky Wilholm, didn’t shake it. Tony laughed as though this were a particularly good joke. “Come in, come in.”
The invitation was just for him, it seemed. Gladys gave him a little push on the shoulder and closed the door. What Luke saw in the middle of the room was alarming. It looked like a dentist’s chair. Except he’d never seen one that had straps on the arms.
“Sit down, champ,” Tony said. Not sport, Luke thought, but close.
Tony went to a counter, opened a drawer beneath, and rummaged in it. He was whistling. When he turned around, he had something that looked like a small soldering gun in one hand. He seemed surprised to see Luke still standing inside the door. Tony grinned. “Sit down, I said.”
“What are you going to do with that? Tattoo me?” He thought of Jews getting num
bers tattooed on their arms when they entered the camps at Auschwitz and Bergen-Belsen. That should have been a totally ridiculous idea, but . . .
Tony looked surprised, then laughed. “Gosh, no. I’m just going to chip your earlobe. It’s like getting pierced for an earring. No big deal, and all our guests get em.”
“I’m no guest,” Luke said, backing up. “I’m a prisoner. And you’re not putting anything in my ear.”
“I am, though,” Tony said, still grinning. Still looking like the guy who would help little kids on the bunny slopes before trying to kill James Bond with a poison dart. “Look, it’s no more than a pinch. So make it easy on both of us. Sit in the chair, it’ll be over in seven seconds. Gladys will give you a bunch of tokens when you leave. Make it hard and you still get the chip, but no tokens. What do you say?”
“I’m not sitting in that chair.” Luke felt trembly all over, but his voice sounded strong enough.
Tony sighed. He set the chip insertion gadget carefully on the counter, walked to where Luke stood, and put his hands on his hips. Now he looked solemn, almost sorrowful. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
His ears were ringing from the open-handed slap almost before he was aware Tony’s right hand had left his hip. Luke staggered back a step and stared at the big man with wide, stunned eyes. His father had paddled him once (gently) for playing with matches when he was four or five, but he had never been slapped in the face before. His cheek was burning, and he still couldn’t believe it had happened.
“That hurt a lot more than an earlobe pinch,” Tony said. The grin was gone. “Want another? Happy to oblige. You kids who think you own the world. Man oh man.”
For the first time, Luke noticed there was a small blue bruise on Tony’s chin, and a small cut on his left jaw. He thought of the fresh bruise on Nicky Wilholm’s face. He wished he had the guts to do the same, but he didn’t. The truth was, he didn’t know how to fight. If he tried, Tony would probably slap him all over the room.
