I knew the look. Maximum-security lockup.
I was pretty sure we’d gotten to my new ’ome.
One of the men in black opened the last door down on the left. They led me through and into a small cell. I’d seen worse, but only in comic books. The room was about eight feet by eight feet, bare stone walls, bare stone floor and ceiling. One dim light hung from the ceiling inside a steel-mesh cage. Opposite the door there was a shelf carved out of the stone. It was just big enough to lie down on. Just so I didn’t have to figure it out by myself, there was a thin blanket folded on the foot of the “bed.” And hanging from the wall above it there were two chains. On the floor below were two more. I didn’t have to guess what they were for.
In two minutes my hands and feet were locked into the chains and I was sitting on the stone bed.
That’s pretty much all I did for a truly long-ass time. I think it had to be three days, but it’s impossible to be sure. The one light in the ceiling never flickered. It was always the same dim no-time in the cell. There were no sounds, no smells, nothing. Six times the door opened and two guards came in. They stood at either side of the door, weapons at the ready, while a third guard dropped a tray on the floor where I could just reach it if I stretched out all the way. Then they left.
Each tray held a bottle of water and a paper plate. On the plate it was always the same—a gray-green glop that looked like something they’d scraped off the walls. I ate it anyway. It wasn’t awful. I mean, compared to eating dog shit or rotten squid it was sort of tasty. But I figured they weren’t planning to kill me with the food, so I had to stay alive and as healthy as I could, just in case. I ate it all.
So like I said, I was pretty sure it was three days. I knew the whole arrangement was all set up to fuck with my head, make me unsure about time and everything else—steady dim light, no external sight or sound, all that. It’s a popular old-time technique. Stick you in a cell with light always on, no way to tell if it’s night or day. They change the feeding intervals, keep you isolated from absolutely everything, and make you just sit there. There’s no way at all to tell how much time is going by, or anything else. Nobody to talk to, nothing to listen to, no way to move more than a few inches. After a while your brain short-circuits. Two minutes seems like an hour—or three hours can feel like a couple of minutes. Like I said, it fucks with your head. And if it goes on long enough you can even start to hallucinate.
I could take it. I’d been there before. My head has gotten pretty hard to fuck. And I actually started getting optimistic. The longer it went on, the more certain I got that they were softening me up for something. Sure, that probably meant something heinous was coming at me. But it also meant there was going to be some way out, even if it was tiny. There’s no reason to soften up somebody to kill them. You do it to get them to jump at some truly stupid, lethal idea that looks like a great way out when you’re softened enough. But if they really wanted me dead, I would be already.
So I stayed cool. I didn’t talk to myself, hallucinate angels, or flip a finger on my lips and go, buh-bee, buh-bee. I sat and waited. I was going to get through this. Somehow, some way, I was going to survive. They might make it hard, but I was used to that, and I always find a way.
I kept that thought with me all the time. I would make it. And as long as I was alive, there would be some way, somehow, some time, to get out of here. I hung on to that, and it kept me calm.
I mean, I’m not Batman. Nobody can keep focus 24/7. So there were plenty of times when I wondered if I was kidding myself. I didn’t really know that somebody wanted me alive for some reason. After all, I didn’t even know why I was here—or even where here was. I could be the Count of Monte Cristo, and I’d be out in a few days. But I might be the Man in the Iron Mask and I was here until I died. Why? Who knows? There could be some weird irrational reasons I couldn’t imagine. Maybe it was a cult and they were just keeping me until the full moon, and then they’d sacrifice me to a goat god or something.
And every now and then I thought about being forty or fifty feet below sea level, chained to a stone wall. Floods happen all the time. And it wouldn’t take much of a flood to put me plenty far enough underwater to drown. Or just as likely, think about the fact that I was guarded by a bunch of paramilitary dudes. The fact that they were here meant whoever was in charge had enemies. So what happens if the enemies invade this rock, kill all the guys in black? And they don’t know about me—why would they? So they kill everybody and go home, and now I’m left to slowly starve to death. Maybe the flood was better. At least drowning is quick.
I thought up lots of other really cool ways I might die, with lots of time to get the details right. So there was plenty to keep me entertained, in between fits of stupid optimism.
On what I figured was the third day, the optimism got a little stupider. And a whole lot harder to call up.
I had just finished a delightful, sumptuous meal of slimy green glop, accompanied by a full bottle of a superb vintage of water. I’d tossed the empty plate on the floor and settled back on my luxurious stone bed when I heard footsteps. The sound was different—like, the feet making them were smaller, lighter, and not wearing boots. I didn’t know what that meant, but it was different, so I figured I better pay attention.
I sat up. The door swung open. Slowly. And then a woman came in. She had blond hair that showed dark roots, and it was pulled back into a tight bun, like ballet dancers wear. She moved like a ballet dancer, too, and she had a body to match, except that there was a whole lot of muscle showing that looked more MMA than ballet. She stared at me like I was a piece of furniture, probably a worn footstool, and turned slowly, surveying the entire cell. That gave me a good opportunity to look again and check her out. She was no footstool. Her face had probably started out as beautiful as the rest of her. In profile, the right side was close to perfect. Classic high cheekbones, a cute little button nose, and those dark green eyes. True beauty—on the right side. But the left side . . .
Once upon a time it had probably been just as perfect as the right side. But somebody had hacked the left side of her face with something big and sharp, probably a large knife. Just for the hell of it, they’d hacked a couple more times. Okay, maybe a whole bunch of times. That side of her face was a mess. It looked like a raised-relief map of the Grand Tetons. It was dominated by a couple of parallel scars that looked like the cheek had fallen off and a drunk tailor had sewed it back on. Those two scars ran all the way down her cheek, from the eyebrow to the chin.
I would have felt sorry for her, until she turned her eyes back on me and just stared.
I’d been wondering why anyone would come here alone, way down in the dungeon with a dangerous thug like me. But then she came soundlessly across the stone floor to me and stood close. She looked right into my face, and I didn’t wonder anymore.
She put two green eyes on me that were colder than the bottom shelf of the deep freeze. Green eyes do not generally do cold very well. I don’t know if you’ve noticed this, but if you haven’t, take my word for it. Blue eyes can be North Pole cold, brown eyes can fry your ass, but green eyes are always warm, welcoming. Always.