“Your friend Reed. And the new threat.” Ariadne had turned wary again, like she was tiptoeing around what she wanted to say so as not to set me off.
“I’ve only met Reed twice,” I said. Kind of sad, but that made him my oldest friend. “And I have no idea who this new guy is. Just for the record, I’m calling him ‘Full Metal Jackass’ because he’s a sucker-punching douchebag, and I hope you’ll join me in that by putting it on his official file or threat designator or whatever you use to keep track of metas that cross you.”
“Duly noted. We have concerns.” She folded her hands again.
“So do I,” I agreed. “Most of them involve your fashion sense, with a few left to spare for the armor-clad whackjob that bitch slapped me around a parking lot this morning.”
She sighed, bowing her head in utter resignation. “We’d like to know who Reed works for.”
“So would I. But I’d also like to know who Wolfe worked for, who this new metal man is, who funds the Directorate, exactly how many factions are out there involved in this dustup over metas, what all their goals are...” I shrugged. “I asked him some of these questions, and he didn’t answer, so I’m not sure how I can help you.”
Ariadne hesitated. “You could tag him for us.”
“Tag him?” I felt a laugh rising from within and I let it slip. “Is that a crude aphorism for sex? Because I think that would kill him before he could answer any of your questions.” I couldn’t bring myself to look at Zack after I said it. I wouldn’t have gone there, but as conservatively as Ariadne dressed, I had a feeling the reaction would be worth it.
It was. She reddened, her face turning roughly the same shade as her hair. “I mean with a tracer bug, if you should run into him again.” She reached into her top desk drawer and her hand emerged with a small wooden case. She snapped it open, revealing a pen. “When you hold the clicker, it launches a tracking beacon that only we can follow.” She slid it across the desk. “It has a range of about twenty feet when it fires, so make sure you’re aiming the pen properly. It will cling to almost any surface, and it has ten tracers within it.”
“Tricky,” I said. “Reed would be pissed if he found out I was tracking him. I think he’d be less offended if I tagged him the other, more lethal way.”
“I think he knows how to find those,” Zack said from beside me. I didn’t dare look at him yet. We’d faced death together, but I didn’t want to see his reaction to my references to sex for some reason. Dammit. “Kurt used one of those to tag the bumper of his car outside your house the day we met, and it went offline after he left us behind at the supermarket.”
I stared at the pen, picking it up and cradling it in my fingers. It was small, black, and slightly rounded. Looked fancy. “I always wondered how you guys had found us there.” I held it up. “I’m not going to promise that I’ll use this because I still don’t work for you guys. But I’ll consider it.”
“Fair enough,” she said. “What will it take to get you to trust us?”
“I notice you didn’t answer any of the questions I asked a minute ago about who the players are in this meta conflict.” I stared her down, making her uncomfortable.
“You want answers,” she said with a nod. “I think we can accommodate that request. Let me talk with the Director. It will be a long conversation though, so let’s plan for it to happen tomorrow morning. There might be other things we can discuss by then.”
“Just to be clear,” I told her. “This isn’t an ‘all or nothing’ proposition. You don’t get my trust all in one move, but this will help. Be honest with me and you build your credibility.”
“That’s a two-way street,” she said with a flush.
“Which is why I’m going to see your master of mind games.” I stood and looked at Zack, now finally able to do so without profound embarrassment. “Care to show me the way to my mental doom?”
“You don’t have to treat it like it’s some awful, hellish scenario,” Zack said once we were in the hallways outside Ariadne’s office. “This is a good thing for you.”
“Maybe. But it doesn’t mean I want to do it.” I was actually more scared that I’d inadvertantly let something slip that I shouldn’t, like the fact that the first man I’d ever killed was a houseguest in my mind, spinning wheels and talking to me. Even for a recent arrival from recluse-hood like myself, that didn’t seem normal. But then, neither did killing people with a touch.
“Life’s about more than just doing what you want to do,” Zack said, terse.
“That’s the story of mine.”
“Right,” he said. “Just try and let Dr. Zollers help you. He’s good; I’ve seen him myself.”
“What for?” Now I was very curious.
“Standard procedure for agents,” he said, just airily enough that I didn’t believe him. “We’re in a high-stress occupation, so before they put us on field duty we get a full evaluation, and the doctor counsels us throughout our careers.”
“What do you talk to him about?”
“Normal stuff. The pressures that come with being on call 24/7, ready to round up and suppress any meta that steps out of line.”
“Suppress?” I giggled. “You mean kill?”
“Or capture,” he said, bristling.
I felt my face fall. “Like Gavrikov.” I thought of that coffin that they put him in, and I felt a familiar kind of sick.
The regret was there, on his face. “Yeah. Like him.”
“Are there more?” I looked at him. “Have you guys captured a lot of metas?”
“Yeah. Our facility in Arizona has a prison where they’re kept. It’s far out in the desert, middle of nowhere.”
“What do they do, these metas? You know, to deserve confinement like Gavrikov?”
“Gavrikov is unique,” Zack said in protest. “Most of the ones we have to confine—and it’s very few, fortunately—are ones that are clear, obvious cases of metas using their powers to commit crimes. They’re strong enough that law enforcement would have a hell of a time catching them.”
“Like Wolfe?”
Zack cringed. “Not that bad. At least, none of the ones I’ve dealt with. Murderers, sure, some major thieves. But every one of them has committed enough crimes that you get the idea that they’ll never be able to live in human society again without returning to the same behaviors.”
“How many crimes is that?”
“Lots.” He looked at me as we exited the Headquarters building, and he was all seriousness. “On average, twenty felony offenses, ranging from burglary to the big ones, the capital offenses, before we catch up with them.”
“Do they get a trial?” Again, I was curious.
“Not really,” he said. “Usually we’ve caught them in the act, and our forensics are better than average. But it wouldn’t matter; when we send them to Arizona, it’s almost always for life.”
“A life sentence,” I mused. “So you guys are the judge, jury, and executioner.”
“It’s not like that.” His voice lowered, and the defensiveness was on the rise within it. “These are criminals that the justice system couldn’t contain if they wanted to.”
“The government doesn’t know about metas?” I shook my head. “They don’t want to deal with them?”
“They know about them,” Zack said. “I’ve heard they have a program in place for dealing with them if they catch them.
“And?”
“It’s less charitable than ours. Our facility can allow even a truly dangerous meta some free rein, because our guards are metas and the staff are prepared. The government facility is a hole in the ground. They go in, they don’t come out, and who knows if they’re alive or dead.” He looked at me. “You don’t approve.”
“I don’t know,” I said with a surprising lack of emotion one way or another. Bet I’d have felt different if I’d been in one of the Directorate’s cells in Arizona. “I don’t have a better solution, but I’m famed for my lack of trust.”
“And?”
“Why would I trust you to faithfully execute a full criminal justice system, hidden where no one can observe or see it?” I shrugged. “I’m not going to get involved—for a myriad of reasons, including the fact that I’m one person, and I have no better solution—but it doesn’t sound like a perfect use of power to me. It sounds worrisome, and seems like it has a high potential for abuse of prisoners and people. Kind of Draconian.”
We lapsed into a vaguely comfortable silence, not saying anything as he led the way across the campus, which was just as well. If I hadn’t been feeling so self-involved and worried about what was going on for myself, I might have thought more deeply about what Zack had been describing. It sounded ugly, but I had no time to worry about it.
He walked me to a building on a side of the campus I’d spent little time on. It was closest to the gymnasium but wasn’t far from a host of buildings I’d never been in. Like the others, it wasn’t marked well, I suspected on purpose. He held the door for me, which was a nice touch. I pretended to be too preoccupied to notice.
The hallways were long, brick, and like everywhere else in the Directorate they had a sterile scent to them. The building was older than HQ, the brick was faded, and it was quiet; only the hum of the overhead fluorescent lights could be heard. I wanted to believe I could hear the beating of my own heart, but I really couldn’t. I was nervous, but not off the scale.
Zack stopped me at a solid wooden door. It had one of those silver name plates over it, and it read: Dr. Quinton Zollers, M.D. I grimaced inwardly. Not that I thought it would be easier, but having a psychologist without the M.D. appellation seemed less intimidating for some reason.
“You’ll do fine,” Zack said. In my nervous tension, I couldn’t decide whether I wanted to kiss him or slap him, then remembered that they’d both have roughly the same effect. “Don’t forget about our date tonight.”
I froze. “Our what?”
“You know,” he said, casual. “We’re going to dinner, the movies, mall, all that?”
“Yes. Sorry.”
“Not a problem,” he said with a genuine smile. “You’ve got a lot on your mind. I’ll come by your dorm at five to pick you up?”
“Sounds good,” I said, relieved that he missed the source of my reluctance. After all, it was infinitely preferable that he thought I’d forgotten our rendezvous than that I was taken aback by him referring to it as a date. Because, of course, he meant nothing serious by it.
He was halfway down the hall and had not looked back when I reached for the door handle and swung it open. I found myself in a waiting room with chairs lined up against the walls and a fish tank in the corner. On the far wall was another door, solid, which I assumed led to the inner sanctum of Dr. Quinton Zollers, who would be helping me diagnose problems I didn’t even recognize I had. I found myself surprised that Wolfe didn’t have a funny comment for this situation, and then wondered if perhaps he was sleeping.
There wasn’t another soul in the waiting room, so I made my way to the inner door and knocked, three sharp raps. A voice boomed out. “Sienna Nealon...come right in.”
I took a deep breath, and swung the door open.
Chapter 8
Dr. Zollers rose to meet me when I entered the room and to his credit didn’t blink at the sight of my torn clothing. I had expected one of those long fainting couches, facing away from the practitioner. Instead, I was surprised to find a few comfortable chairs and an office that was set up more like a living room. A couch sat in front of me, a full sized one, and three chairs sat across from it, with a coffee table in the middle. Sitting in one of the chairs was a shorter man with dark skin that spoke of his African heritage, a goatee, and eyes that glittered as though he knew the punch line to a joke he hadn’t shared yet.
“Howdy,” he said, not extending a hand, keeping them both clasped on the armrests of his seat. The faint smile he wore went well with his eyes, and he inclined his head in greeting. “It’s my very great pleasure to meet you, Sienna.”
“The feeling is...” I hesitated, and knew I was letting loose a little too much sarcasm, “...mutual.”
“I kinda doubt that.” He sat back down and pointed at the couch. “Have a seat.”
“Right here?” I pointed to the couch he indicated.
“Wherever,” he said with a slight shrug. Then, as if sensing that my immediate thought was that the bed back in my room seemed like a good option, he added, “In the office.”
I snapped my fingers theatrically. “Damn.” I sat on the couch and stared at him. He stared back, still wearing that smile.
“So. What do you want to talk about?”
“Oh, I don’t know. How about the season the Vikings are having?”
He raised an eyebrow. “You a sports fan?”
“Nah. I just thought it’d be more fun than what Ariadne wants us to talk about.”
“What do you think Ariadne wants us to talk about?” He gave me a shrewd look.
“This is gonna be a brutally long session if all you do is ask me questions every time I say things.” My eyes searched the walls for a clock.
“Why would you think that all I would do is ask questions?” His smile got broader. “Talk about anything you’d like, we’ll go from there.”
“Let’s talk about the Directorate. How long have you been here?”
He thought about it for a beat. “About three years.”
“How many doctors do they have on staff here? I mean, Perugini, Sessions, you...do they have a full-time herpetologist too?”
He nodded without any hint of levity. “For the reptile metas, sure.” After a moment in which I was sure he was dead serious, he laughed. “Kidding. I don’t know. I pay less attention to their staffing than I do to their staff.”
“And your job is to help them...” I tried to find a phrase that would fit and be insulting, but I failed, “...psychologically decompress?”
“That’s a part of what I do,” he said, his voice smooth. “Agents get put in stressful situations, they may have to use violence in their work, and it’s something that stays with them. Also, the metas we have here sometimes go through a rough transition. Though,” he said with a sense of irony, “usually not quite as rough as what’s happened to you.”
“I was gonna ask how you manage to keep any of them here if what happened to me was normal.”
“You probably know this, but what happened to you was not ‘normal,’” he said. “I’ve counseled a lot of metas who have come here after realizing that they won’t be able to fit in with their former lives the way they thought they could before. None of them have been attacked the way you were—hunted by a psychotic super-meta who wanted to capture you.”