Dominion

ELEVEN

They returned him, still soaked to the waist, to his refrigerated cell, where Ruppert shivered until he slipped into a comatose sleep.

He lost track of the days and nights, and even the ability to determine the time of day. The guards pulled him out at irregular intervals, for another interrogation by the Captain, or to administer a gratuitous beating and maybe take him to the filthy bathroom at the end of the hall. They would interrupt his sleep with loud, piercing sounds that sometimes rang for hours and hours, driving him mad. They offered no medical treatment for the damage to his hands, and the wounds from his bindings etched into his flesh as scarred black loops and whorls across his palms, fingers, and the backs of his hands. He never saw any of the other prisoners.

The Captain questioned him repeatedly about his political and religious beliefs, but also devoted long, intense periods of questioning to the minute details of Ruppert’s sexual history and inclinations. Ruppert did not know if they were profiling him as a social deviant, or if this was intended to break him down psychologically, or if it was just a private obsession of the Captain.

Eventually, the Captain brought him in again to talk about Sully. He began by replaying the video of Sully’s visit to Ruppert’s house, obviously recorded by Ruppert’s screens at home.

“We have to wonder, Mr. Ruppert,” the Captain said, “What might have transpired in your basement.”

“I told you, Sully was afraid.”

“And what, precisely, did he want from you?”

“He wanted…he thought I might be able to help him. To hide him.”

“And why would he think you could do that?”

“I don’t know. He must have been desperate.”

“And you said…?”

“I told him there was nothing I could do to help him. I don’t think anyone could have helped him by then.”

“You turned him away?”

“I just told him the truth.”

“But you wanted to help. You sympathized, even knowing he was a morally corrupt deviant. You would have helped him if it were in your power.”

“I felt sorry for him. I wouldn’t have risked my life to protect him, though. I still have Madeline to think about.” Under the captors’ rules, this was the closest he could come to asking what they’d done to Madeline.

“Are you absolutely sure nothing else happened?” the Captain asked, ignoring Ruppert’s implied question.

“Nothing. He was only there for a minute. I told him not to come back.”

A powerful electric jolt tore through Ruppert’s body.

“You know how we feel about lies, Mr. Ruppert.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now. I’m going to make this extremely easy for you.” The Captain reached into his bag and brought out a transparent evidence bag. Inside was Ruppert’s wallet, a thin square box fronted with a screen for communications and transactions, with hollow compartments for cash and other items. The compartments were now open and empty.

The Captain laid the evidence bag on the table, then placed a second bag beside it. This one held the plastic card with the long alphanumeric direct number stamped across it.

“Where did you get this?” The Captain indicated the card.

“I’m not sure.”

Another painful electric shock hit him.

“Again,” the Captain said.

“I don’t remember.”

Another electric shock, even stronger this time.

“Why are you still trying to lie, Mr. Ruppert? Have you not fully grasped the rules? Don’t you think we investigated the number ourselves? We know who this contacts.”

“Then you know more than I do,” Ruppert said. He winced, waited for the shock, but either the Captain sensed he was telling the truth or he’d grown tired of jolting him for the moment.

“Allow me to make this completely clear, Mr. Ruppert. We still have your wife in custody. We can have your parents in ten minutes, if we wish to, though I don’t think they would hold up at this facility as well as you have. As for you-how familiar are you with the coal-mining industry?”

“Not at all. Sir.”

“You will learn fast. I have a standing request from a civilian labor camp in West Virginia. I don’t know what goes on there, but they do seem to have a bottomless demand for workers.

“As for your wife, there is a constant need for workers to help clean up the Comanche Peak reactor site. You remember the Comanche Peak meltdown, don’t you? You probably reported on it.”

“I was still an intern then.”

“Workers assigned there have an eighty-three percent chance of developing malignancies within twelve months. Again, a bottomless demand for warm bodies.”

Ruppert could not answer. He tried to suppress his imagined picture of Madeline toothless, hairless, shriveled by cancerous radiation.

“I have the necessary assignment orders on my desk,” the Captain said. “They only need my signature. I could put you both on a train tonight-separate trains, of course. You’d be at work by five A.M. Eastern time. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now, I will likely send you both to these work camps. There is only one other possibility. Would you like to hear the other possibility?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Mr. Stone clearly intended that you make contact with this person.” The Captain tapped the card in the evidence bag. “We want you to do that. You are permitted for the purposes of this conversation to ask questions.”

“Why do you want me to do this?”

“Not an acceptable question.”

“Okay, I’m sorry. What…do you want me to say when I call?”

“You will do whatever is necessary to gain his trust. We believe that he knows the whereabouts of a Class A target, a person of high priority to my organization. We believe he may even lead you to this person, in time. Look at him carefully. We want you to find his location.”

The Captain laid his screen flat on the table and turned it around so Ruppert could see it clearly. The screen displayed two pictures of one man, probably a police mug shot. The man looked to be in his late thirties or early forties, large and husky like a football lineman gone to fat. He had a heavy mustache that sprawled out at either side into scraggly beard. His hair was long but he was balding at the top, and in the balding area Ruppert could see an aged, slightly wrinkled tattoo of what looked like scratch marks, or the footprints of chickens.

He read the description below the pic:

Name: Hollis Westerly

Aliases: George Western. ThunderWulff-Z (cyber)

DOB: 10/3/1983, Meridian, Mississippi

CONVICTED: Narcotics possession, Owensboro,

Kentucky

CONVICTED: Assault/Armed Robbery, Detroit, Michigan

Affiliates: Church of the White Creator; Aryan Social

Nationalists…[click for more]

Two text rectangles blinked next to the image: AGE PROGRESSION and DISTINGUISHING MARKS/TATTOOS. Ruppert touched the second one, and the two pictures of the man’s face were replaced by a dozen close-ups of his tattoos: a howling wolf, surrounded by more of the scratchy marks, on his shoulder; something that looked like a swastika, but with only three arms, on his calf; something that was definitely a swastika surrounded by a ring of fire on his back.

“I don’t understand,” Ruppert said. “Why would Sully be involved with somebody like this?”

“It’s a strange world,” the Captain said. “I never said your deviant friend knew this target personally.”

“Why are you so interested in this person?”

“Class A target. Threat to the state.”

“How am I categorized?”

“Class D. Minor nuisance.”

“That’s nice to hear,” Ruppert said. “So if I agree to make contact, and try to find this old skinhead, then what?”

“Then I wave a magic wand and put your life back together for you,” the Captain said. “We let you go. We let your wife go.”

“You’ll drop all the charges?”

“We’ll let you go with a very severe warning. And we’ll keep a close watch on you for a long time-not that you’ll notice. You get us our target and then go back to being an obedient, moral citizen, then you’ll never have to hear from us again.”

“I feel like I should have a lawyer here or something.”

“We don’t deal in written laws.”

“Then how do I know you’ll hold up your end?”

“It’s this or a labor camp.”

“Good point.” He only had to help them capture somebody who was obviously dangerous. The alternative was horrifying. “I’ll do it.”

“You don’t want to think it over?”

“What’s to think about?”

The Captain smiled, but his pale blue eyes were flat and lifeless. “You are correct. It is an easy choice, isn’t it? I only hope you do not let the comforts of your life outside delude you into thinking you’ve escaped us. You must carry out this task or we will take you back.”

“I understand, sir.”

The Captain studied him for a long moment. He touched the AGE PROGRESSION button on the screen, and the face of Hollis Westerly appeared again, his hair longer and heavily streaked with gray, his bald spot expanded, his jowls deeper.

“Take a careful look, Mr. Ruppert. When you find this man, you will contact us. If you touch the weather icon on your wallet screen, then touch the Ski Forecast icon, that will send the necessary signal to us. That’s all you need to do. Understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Your cooperation is appreciated.” The Captain stood and gathered up his things, including Ruppert’s wallet, then moved for the door. “You will see that we are just as proficient at rewarding our friends as we are at punishing our enemies.”

He left the room, and a minute later the guards unstrapped Ruppert from the chair. This time, they did not take him back to the refrigerated cell, but up two flights of stairs, down a corridor lined with full-size doors, and into a concrete, windowless room with a padded bunk, a sink, a clear toilet. A few minutes after they locked him in, a hatch in the door opened and a plastic platter covered with foil was deposited on his floor.

Ruppert pulled away the foil. Underneath was a steaming hot meal of roasted chicken, baked potatoes, broccoli and carrots. There was even a chilled can of soda. After days of starvation, it looked like a feast. The hunger had taken second place to his physical suffering, but now it rose to consume him.

Ruppert began to eat his reward.