“There is no question about your guilt. There is no need for a hearing. You are a felon, which is a condition punishable by death. There is an incontrovertible truth about your situation, Miss Philips—”
The senator paused, stood, and still with one hand on the pistol and a finger fondling the trigger, he leaned nearly all the way across the small table to get within an arm’s length of Jane’s face.
“Your daddy can’t save you now, sweetheart,” he added, baring his buttery teeth through a callous grin.
Jane was desperately trying to stay cool, even though her heart was beating so hard she was sure the senator could hear it. Truthfully, the revelation that she was facing the death penalty had caught her off guard, though she knew death was a very real outcome of all this. She didn’t want to let on that she was unaware, and the senator still hadn’t given her anything useful about where her dad and brother might be … or if her mother was alive.
The senator stood up, grabbing the pistol in his hand.
“Fortunately for you, Miss Philips,” the senator said, gesturing casually at Jane with the business end of the pistol, “because of my position, I can make certain problems … go away.”
Jane couldn’t help but wince when the senator pointed the pistol at her, and her nerves were getting the best of her. She didn’t know what the senator was likely to do, but she was convinced, and terrified, that what her dad had told her over the years was all too true—the senator would do anything to get what he wanted.
The senator, realizing he had found a crack in Jane’s façade, now started pacing behind the table, occasionally gesturing at Jane with the pistol.
“Take, for example, your problem, Miss Philips. I really would hate for you to be executed. Why, I think it’d be awful to deprive your family of your lovely presence—really, it would be a tragedy for us to lose someone as young and attractive as yourself, even if you don’t contribute anything of value to society."
The senator stopped pacing and looked down at Jane with a grave expression.
“But I am a patriot, Miss Philips. I love this country dearly, and I take the law—the law that you broke—very seriously. And it is going to take a lot of convincing for me to want to turn the other cheek on your—criminal activities.”
The senator set the pistol down and leaned on the table again.
“So—since you are obviously having trouble thinking clearly and making good judgements, I’ll spell this out for you. Tell me how to find the artificial intelligence program, and I will consider sparing you from the death penalty.”
Jane paused for a moment to give the senator the impression she was considering his request. She had been rattled a bit, but she was determined to see this through.
“So what you are saying, Senator, is that if I tell you where the program is, I may live.”
“Yes.”
“And if I don’t tell you where the program is, I will die.”
“Yes, Miss Philips. I believe you are beginning to understand.”
Jane put her most thoughtful expression on her face, raising her finger to her pursed lips and glancing at the corner of the room. A long pause later, she returned her gaze to the senator, who appeared to be growing impatient at her stalling.
“You know, Senator, there’s just one thing I don’t get. Perhaps you can help me understand, since I’m just a pretty face.”
The senator swayed in his spot, obviously growing more aggravated by the second.
“I’m just curious,” Jane began, lifting her hands mockingly in wonder, “what do you do with all the bodies? I mean, really, Senator, given your impotence in getting what you want—you know, extorting information and such from innocent people like me—you must have had to execute a lot of people.”
The senator’s blood pressure was rising, his swollen face getting redder by the second.
“In fact,” Jane added before the senator could open his mouth, “you are so pathetically inept at this I would bet you’ve had to execute over two million people.”
The senator’s look of anger flickered briefly to one of surprise, though Jane couldn’t tell if he was surprised that she knew about the executions or was surprised to hear such a specific number.
“Why, you’d have to have an enormous open grave to hold that many bodies—you know—someplace high up in the mountains—a valley, perhaps—maybe fifty miles west of here—someplace where people aren’t likely to just stumble across it … You get the idea.”
The senator’s furrowed brow softened. He looked confused. Jane had no delusion that he was responsible for all the bodies in that burial ground—or even was personally responsible for any of them. Given his expression, he may not have even known about the open grave himself, but under the circumstances, Jane was fine with saddling him with the responsibility anyway.
“That’s a lot of blood on your hands, Senator,” Jane continued. “Does that wash off in one of those nice warm showers you were talking about earlier?”
The senator said nothing, and the expression on his face told Jane that his mind was turning the situation over and over.
“Senator?” Jane asked, attempting to provoke him further.
The senator sat quietly, and a moment later, his cheeks lightened, his face becoming more relaxed. He smiled.
“You know, Miss Philips, I can see that you need a little time to consider your situation and my offer. And more than time, I think you need a little … encouragement … to do the right thing. To help you see things more clearly. You know, a little jolt,” he added, balling up his fist and flexing his arm, “to help you make the right choice.”
The senator paused, and then lifting his head, he spoke loudly into the intercom.
“Warden, provide Miss Philips with a little incentive to help her make a smart decision.”
Not a second later, Jane heard herself scream and felt the agonizing sensation of electricity shooting up her arm. She quickly clenched her teeth and looked at her arm through her watering eyes. Her hand was convulsing wildly, and she felt as if every muscle in her arm had constricted to the point where if it didn’t stop, the bone in her forearm would snap.
Even worse than the searing pain coursing through her arm in waves was the sensation that the tracker in her arm was actually alive, vibrating or crawling or burrowing through her skin. The feeling made her instantly nauseous, and had she had any food in her stomach at the time, she was certain she would have vomited. Wanting nothing more than to rip it out of her arm, Jane feebly clawed at the tracker to no avail.
After what seemed an eternity, the pain ceased, and Jane found herself sucking in air, realizing she hadn’t taken a breath until then. Still twitching and sweating, slumped in her chair, she forced herself to sit up straight and looked at the senator.
Jane had expected him to have a mocking grin or to be getting some sort of sick pleasure out of watching her squirm in pain as she did, but it appeared to be the opposite. The senator almost looked like he was going to vomit himself, an air of disgust or revulsion about him at the torture he had just witnessed and inflicted.
Quickly, the senator wiped the look off his face and replaced it with one that was calm and cool.
“I think we are finished here, for now, Miss Philips.”
The senator lifted his head to the intercom again, and Jane couldn’t help but flinch, just barely, but enough that she was sure the senator caught it.
“Warden, open the door for Miss Philips. She is going back to her cell.”
The door clicked open behind Jane. She stood, a little wobbly given her recent electrocution and her lack of having water and food. Refusing to look weak, however, she stood straight, and in as graceful a way as she could manage, she turned and walked toward the door.
“Miss Philips,” the senator called after her with a tone Jane would have taken from anyone else to mean he cared.
Jane stopped in the doorway and turned halfway toward the senator but didn’t look at him. “Sen
ator?”
“Miss Philips, I am a very powerful man—but some situations are beyond even my ability to control them. This is becoming one of those situations. Are we clear?”
“Yes,” Jane answered weakly, trying to clear her throat at the same time.
“Please go,” the senator said as he sat down in his chair.
Jane turned toward the elevator and walked, now clutching her throbbing arm in the other against her chest, unable to keep the tears from forming in her eyes.
“Detainee, proceed to the elevator,” the electronic voice ordered as she approached the elevator.
Jane stepped inside and rode the elevator down to her floor. As the door opened, she heard the telltale clicking sound that a current was coming. Not as quick as she had been a day ago, Jane tried to jump out of the elevator but felt the surge of electricity as it shot up through her foot and leg and out through the top of her head.
Off balance from the attempted jump and from feeling another bolt of searing pain course through her body, Jane tumbled onto the concrete floor and smashed into the wall. Dazed and nearly delirious, she groped around for something to help her up.
“Detainee, proceed to your cell,” the voice commanded, and then Jane heard the clicking sound again over her head.
Quickly she scrambled on her hands and knees, just barely avoiding the bolt of electricity that had sparked behind her. Jane stumbled to her feet and bumbled like a monster down the hall into her cell. As the door closed behind her, Jane collapsed onto her cot, passing out from exhaustion and pain.
AVENGER
Jane awoke to the sensation of something crawling on her arm. Brushing wildly at it and nearly falling off her cot as she leapt out, she quickly realized it was the tracker in her arm vibrating. The sensation was still nauseating, but Jane was thankful it wasn’t also electrocuting her.
The light in her room was already on. She looked around, dizzy, and tried to catch her bearings. Apparently, she hadn’t responded to the light fixture’s flickering and buzzing phase, so someone had decided to give her the creepy vibrating tracker-in-the-arm alarm to wake her up.
The sound of a heavy metal door grinding open then shut echoed in the hallway. As it died away, faintly at first but growing louder as the seconds passed, Jane heard whistling. It was a haunting tune, almost like a sad Irish lullaby, whistled with ease as if from a man working away at a job he’d done a million times before, without a care in the world. As the man came closer to her cell, Jane heard his shuffling steps, and she couldn’t help but climb back on her cot to get as much distance as she could from the door.
The shuffling stopped on the other side of Jane’s door, as did the whistling, and then, in the yellow light of the single bulb above, Jane saw the small door in the bottom of the cell door lift up. As it opened, Jane couldn’t see anything but blackness in the hallway beyond, but a few seconds later, the man pushed a gray plastic tray through the opening, his hand large and leathery, his graying flesh bound tightly around the wrist by a faded denim shirt cuff. On the tray was a cup of water and a steaming bowl of something that could have passed for soup or stew if it wasn’t for the fact that it was as gray as the tray. Jane stared at it, feeling sickened by the sight of the slop, and felt a wave of relief wash over her as the man retracted his hand—until he began to sing.
“Now come, my sweet, come eat and drink.
Your skin so fair, your lips so pink,
You won't be strong for long, my sweet.
Your failing breath, through lips so pink.”
Jane’s heart stopped as the man continued, his gravelly voice failing to miss even a single note.
“Don't eat, don't drink, my sweet, you think,
That you’ll survive, the grime and stink.
You'll pull your hair, and kick your feet.
Just one more day, of pain and stink.”
Jane pushed further up the cot against the wall, the chill amplifying the shudder that ripped up her spine.
“Won't eat, won't drink, won’t cry, you think,
We'll write a tale, your tears, the ink.
Just keep it up, we’ll share a treat,
A treat for me, your tears, the ink.”
Jane felt the tears well in her eyes. She wanted to cry but held her breath, afraid the man on the other side of the door would hear.
“You'll eat, you’ll drink, you’ll beg, I think,
Can’t move, or scream, nor all but blink.
You won't survive the wolves. Too sweet.
The edge of Hell? Perhaps. Don't blink.
“Now eat, and drink, just come, and think,
You need your strength, you're on the brink.
The hangman’s noose so tight and sweet.
Just one last chance, my sweet, to drink.”
Jane shook and whimpered as the man finished his song, and as his voice trailed off, the small door slammed with a hard clank on the concrete floor.
The man started whistling again and shuffled away as slowly as he had come. After what seemed like an eternity, Jane heard the door at the end of the hallway grind open and closed again.
No longer able to contain her emotions, Jane burst into tears, shaking hard against the cold, damp wall, trying not to hyperventilate. She looked around helplessly at the fixtures of her cell. She wanted to hide. There was nowhere to go, and the more she thought about hiding, the harder it was for her to think. She felt her breath getting short.
Jane looked up into the camera above her door and immediately had a vision of the warden watching her every move, like some demented pervert, laughing.
She felt a burning in her chest, the humiliation of being made to cry, of being a spectacle on display for someone’s sick pleasure, making her want to rip the door of her cell off its hinges.
Screaming—at the warden, at the senator, at herself—she flew off the cot at the door and kicked the tray of food across the room, the bowl of stew splattering on the wall. She could feel the heat in her face and the strain of the muscles in her jaw as she screamed again through gritted teeth. Jane felt like she might collapse inward on herself with how tightly wound her muscles were, but no sooner had she thrown her fit, the realization that she didn’t even have the strength to rage overwhelmed her.
Jane grasped for the wall, feeling the blood rushing from her head, her knees starting to buckle. She quickly knelt on the cold floor, her hands pressed against the wall, attempting to brace herself. She breathed.
Jane didn’t move. She heard nothing other than the buzz of the bulb above her head. Moments passed—maybe minutes, maybe hours—but with her strength ebbing away, she had no way to tell. She was determined to find a way out, but it was getting harder for her to think straight.
“Detainee, proceed to the elevator,” boomed the voice.
Jane stood slowly, spun around to face the door to her cell, and would have fallen over had her hand not caught the edge of the sink. Pushing herself away from the wall, she ambled through. Jane stumbled down the hallway, still feeling nauseous and not getting any less dizzy as she went. Hoping it would help her knock the fog out of her head, Jane slapped her cheeks to little effect. She felt like she might be too far past the point of recovery, given her extreme deprivation of everything—sleep, water, food.
Jane stepped into the elevator and moments later, stepped out on the second floor. Hesitant to move too quickly, she looked up through the glass ceiling and noticed the darkness of the night sky. Shaking her head, she tried to remember if it was dark or light the last time she was there. It was getting hard to recall much.
“Detainee, proceed to the open room down the hall.”
Jane walked methodically, digging her fingernails into the palms of her hands in a desperate attempt to snap out of her funk. She had to be alert, seeing as she didn’t know what awful experience they had in store for her, and she still had to pry the location of her dad and brother—maybe even her mom—out of anyone she could.
Approaching th
e door to the room, Jane reluctantly jammed her thumb down on top of the spot where the tracker had been buried and the numbers had been burned into her skin. She immediately felt a wave of pain in her forearm, which quickly snapped her back into the moment.
Jane walked through the doorway to find the senator standing in the far corner of the room with his back to her. Her pistols were still sitting on the table where they had been, and she noticed that the wire from her earbud still protruded from the belt of her holster. She knew Evelyn was listening; she just didn’t know if it would be to anything helpful.
On hearing Jane enter the room, the senator turned around.
“Sit, Miss Philips, please,” he said, gesturing to the chair.
Jane wasn’t sure what was going on, but it seemed the senator had suddenly become more polite than he had been at their last meeting. It was making Jane uncomfortable.
Hearing the door close behind her, Jane sat properly, as before, on the front half of her seat and adopted her best cool expression, even though she knew she certainly looked as bad as she felt.
Looking at the senator, Jane knew something was off. Even through the stench of herself, she could smell the booze on his breath. If he was drunk, he wasn’t acting it, but Jane could see from his bloodshot eyes and the red rings around his eyelids he had been drinking hard, maybe since she saw him last.
The senator looked down at the floor and said nothing for what seemed like an hour, though it was probably only a minute. Finally, clearing his throat, but still having the gravelly sound that only comes from years of cigar smoke and hours of bourbon, the senator spoke to the floor.
Jane and the Exodus Page 18
