The bathroom door stood open. The linen closet was as she had left it. The tub was empty. Deke no longer haunted her.
She twisted the tap on the sink, splashed cold water on her face. The woman in the mirror was pale, eyes wild, but she had seen worse. She patted herself dry with a towel, then saw the disposable Gillette razor she'd used to shave her legs the day before.
The handle lay beside the toilet, the head torn, plastic bands curling. The blades were gone.
THIRTY-THREE
Freeman couldn't concentrate on the history lesson. Ever since group homes had been turned into charter schools, with shrinks and teachers teaming up to make a bad situation worse, education had become yet another weapon the system used against you. Take the history teacher, for example. He might as well have "This space for rent" stamped across his pasty forehead, but he got to decide who was smart and who had a future and which kids were failures. All because he wore a necktie.
Leave it to a loser to be able to pick out the other losers. The teacher's voice was like chalk on a blackboard as he talked about patriots sneaking onto somebody else's ship and dumping tea into the Boston harbor. Creepy little vandals. And now they were hailed as heroes.
People sure didn't know much about heroism back then. The patriots even dressed up as Indians, that's how pathetic they were. The teacher was calling them Freedom Fighters. If you did that kind of thing today, you'd be called a terrorist and locked up for observation with no attorney. Or shot on sight.
Well, the winning side always wrote the history books and freedom was subjective. Being confined in a group home with barbed wire around the perimeter, right here in the Land of the Free that God had blessed above all other countries, didn't seem a bit contradictory to the teacher. Having Social Services telling Freeman where to live wasn't exactly what the Constitution meant by the "pursuit of happiness." The First Amendment didn't prevent shrinks from getting an endless ride inside his head. To Freeman, it seemed the only people who got to do what they wanted were me grownups and the ghosts.
At least Vicky was in this class. He tuned out the squeaky teacher and looked at the back of Vicky's head. The sun was in her hair, and the air around her almost shimmered. She sat in the front, by the window, a consequence of alphabetical order. Freeman was always stuck in the middle of the class. At least he had a good view of the mountains from here, and the fence that kept the world a safe distance away.
Vicky dropped her pencil, bent from her desk, and winked at him. He tried a triptrap, caught something about doughnuts, so he smiled. Then the door opened and a man in a blue suit and sunglasses entered the classroom and whispered in the teacher's ear.
Suits meant something at Wendover, so the teacher listened, then said, "Class, we've had an emergency and everyone needs to report to the dorms."
The class erupted with murmurs of glee and gossip. Isaac slapped his book closed and stared at Freeman as if this were all his fault. Isaac was way too serious about learning. Or maybe he was scared by the "emergency," because, even if he thought Freeman was bullshitting about the deadscape, Isaac had to admit that things were getting pretty weird around this place.
As the kids filed out, Freeman went to Vicky's desk. "What is it?" she whispered.
"What do I look like, a sawed-off Nostradamus or something? Ask Dipes, he's the one who can see the future."
"Oh, so you're in one of your patented mood swings. And you're going to make sure everybody suffers a little."
Why was she mad at him? He thought they were friends, maybe even more than that after this morning, when they had shared a "special moment."
Girls. Who could ever figure them out?
"It's okay to be afraid," she said.
"I'm not afraid," he said, even though the man in the suit and sunglasses was headed straight for him. The Suit had the Trust written all over him, from his buzz cut to his creased jaw to his shiny shoes. Even his cologne was by the book, making a weak attempt at feigned personality.
"I'll be thinking about you," Vicky said, and then the man had a hand on Freeman's shoulder and Freeman thought about ducking and running for the door, but what was the use? The room was a prison and Wendover was a prison and the world beyond the electric fence was just a bigger prison, because he'd been condemned to a life sentence inside his own skull.
"I owe you a penny," Vicky said, and lightning flashed across his soul and his skeleton rattled and ten thousand elves in cleats stomped across his skin. She had triptrapped him.
The Suit said, "Mr. Mills, you need to come with me."
Not a question. Not a request. Just a fact of life.
The Suit led him past the teacher, who was rattling some papers in a bottom drawer. Freeman couldn't resist a Pacino wisecrack. "Guess this means no homework?"
The teacher got busy erasing the chalkboard, even though nothing was written on it. Freeman looked back at Vicky, who flashed him a thumbs-up. The inside of his brain itched and he had no way to scratch it.
In the hall, The Suit stood even taller, his leather shoes squeaking as he marched Freeman in a familiar direction.
"You can take your hand off me now," Freeman said, trying to be Eastwood-cold. "I'm not running."
The Suit said nothing, having used up his requisition of syllables. What did they teach these guys in Secret Agent School, anyway? Besides how to keep from smiling. Back in the good old days, before Mom died, men like The Suit would sometimes stop by and visit his dad. Even at age six, Freeman knew these guys were bad news. They all smelled of hidden ammunition and secrets.
"I know the way," Freeman said. "Room Thirteen. I've spent some of the best moments of my life there."
They passed Bondurant's office and a couple of classrooms. The door to Kracowski's lab was closed. Freeman wondered how many people would be on the other side of the two-way mirror this time. No doubt the mad doctor had rounded up some spectators for his favorite rat's next run at the maze.
The Suit tapped on the door to Thirteen. The wing of the building was empty. You could almost hear dust collecting in the corners. The electronic lock beeped, then the latch clicked like an executioner's pistol.
"Hello, Freeman," said Randy.
Freeman disliked Randy, not just because he was a jock, but because he had the chin of a Secret Agent type. He wore his chin as if it were a boxing glove. Randy had the double disadvantage of being a counselor.
"Let me guess," Freeman said, climbing onto the cot while The Suit waited by the door. "Either I've just been selected as the next contestant on Fear Factor or the doctor's going to put the screws to me again."
Kracowski's voice descended from the hidden speaker in the ceiling. "We would never do anything to hurt you, Freeman."
He flipped a bird at the mirror. "Hitler was sincere, too. And those guys who dumped the tea in the harbor. And God. And all the other bastards back through history who messed with innocent people."
"I'm sorry you feel that way. I thought the last treatment would have helped you overcome your anger."
"Oh, I'm not angry. I've never been better."
Randy rubbed Vaseline on Freeman's temples and attached the electrodes. Then he tapped the flesh on the inside of Freeman's elbow, drew out a syringe, and injected an iridescent, syrupy substance.
"Seriously," Freeman said. "You don't have to sell me on the idea. I believe I'm better."
"No, you don't." Kracowski took on that familiar tone of all the shrinks who had ever subjected Freeman to their utter sincerity. The tone of smugness, lightness, absolute certainty. A tone that God Himself might use if He ever bothered to speak.