The Prisoner (25 page)

Laurel pressed her lips together. “I may grab a handful more.”

Santos smiled. Then he walked back to the truck, opened the cabin door, and returned with two small packs and a large roll of thin cable. “Detonators, wire, and timer.”

Barandus reached over to the packs. “I’ll take those.” Then he asked something in a hushed tone and Santos nodded, pointing to one of the packs and rattling off instructions.

Their packs loaded, they stood at the back of the truck while Henry exchanged a few last words with Santos.

“Say,” Laurel wriggled to adjust the straps, already digging into her shoulders, “should we be careful? I mean, banging against walls and the like?” She tried to empty her mind of the harrowing route they would have to negotiate on their return trip.

Barandus shook his head. “Nah. As the sergeant said, these are stable. You could burn them or hit them with a hammer, and nothing would happen.”

“But—” She was about to persist when Henry joined them.

“Don’t worry.” Henry’s beard shifted. “You wouldn’t feel a thing.”

16:16

“Would you like a cup of coffee? Tea? Please sit down; make yourself comfortable.” Mrs. Cole waved a hand toward the sofa.

Nikola glanced around the living room and stepped over to it.

“Something stronger?” offered Mr. Cole.

“Tea will be fine, thank you. No milk or sugar.” As Mrs. Cole nodded and shuffled on worn slippers toward the kitchen, Nikola sat on the edge of the sofa, occupying the center. “You have a beautiful garden.” He turned to the rock beds crowding a small lawn, visible through sliding glass doors.

“I don’t do much nowadays, besides keeping the weeds at bay and replacing sick plants.” Mr. Cole sat down on one of the easy chairs and massaged a knee with a gnarled hand. “Arthritis is killing me.”

There were no photographs of Sean and Jenny Cole in Laurel’s dossier, but they were much as Nikola had expected: a couple aging with the graceless air of those who had scurried through life without intellectual pursuits, doomed to wither away quietly, watching TV.

Nikola took in the side wall flanking the seating area, scanning a predictable array of traditional photographs in glazed picture frames interspaced with a few modern displays that changed views every few minutes. Next to portraits of old people, probably ancestors, stood a large color photograph of a much younger Sean and Jenny in wedding garb—the smiling bride in an elaborate white dress next to a gangly young man in an ill-fitting tuxedo, probably rented for the occasion. Mixed with snapshots of flower shows and gardening
events were scores of photographs of Laurel. On a far corner, flanked by two remarkable photographs of an alert tabby cat, Nikola spotted a portrait of Sean, looking terribly naive and self-conscious in his Navy uniform. His national service had been uneventful, correct, but gray; a recurrent normalcy permeated his file.

Centered on the mantelpiece over a fireplace with a basket of dried flowers stood a piece of wood with a carved motto:
Dum Spiro Spero
. While I Breathe, I Hope. Nikola pursed his lips at Cicero’s quote from
Letters to Atticus
and the incorrect use of capital letters—the Latin should have been all lowercase—before realizing it was also the state motto of South Carolina, where Jenny was from.
How appropriate
. Next to the carving, a photo frame flickered and then faded. A garden scene with a group in the background too small to identify from a distance blended into a portrait of Laurel holding a furry ball.

When Mrs. Cole returned, carrying a small tray with three mugs, her eyes were reddened and shiny; she’d been crying.

Nikola pasted an innocent expression on his face and blinked twice when, probably by force of habit, she neared the sofa. She did a quick double take, assessing the seating arrangement, and made for the other easy chair after setting the tray on a coffee table.

A century earlier, B. F. Skinner had revolutionized marketing with his “radical behaviorism,” but his work paled in significance before Oleg Bosky’s seminal
Control
. An obscure Russian psychiatrist, Bosky had transformed motivational analysis into an awesome tool, affording his followers an unparalleled capacity to predict reactions to stimuli.

Hard-sale closing-technique number one: Never pitch to a single member of a couple. To do so will allow the punter an excuse to check with the other half before signing. Hard-sale closing-technique number two: Never allow a couple to sit next to each other. To do so will allow the punters a chance to seek the comfort of nearness and strengthen their resistance
.

“Mr. Ma—sek.” Mr. Cole squinted at Nikola’s visiting card. “How is Laurel?”

“Please, call me Nikola. I hate formality.”

Mr. Cole nodded, a glimmer of relief scuttling across tired eyes. “I’m Sean.” He nodded at his wife. “She’s Jenny.”

“Thank you. Yes—Laurel. A dreadful episode. I checked. She’s fine; asleep.” No reaction from either of them. Not that he expected any, but Nikola relaxed further after analyzing their body language. So far they knew nothing of their wretched daughter’s breakout.

“Is there a chance she may be set free?” Jenny Cole blurted. “I mean, before the two-year sentence is over?”

Nikola tore his eyes again from the photographic display, with the unpleasant sensation that he was missing something important, something about the photographs.
She already is free
, Nikola thought. “Indeed,” he said.

“Over the phone you mentioned your department has considered reviewing her case.”

Nikola noticed a brimming glint in Jenny’s eyes, her fingers busy twisting a brown button on her aged cardigan, before he turned toward Sean. “All three: Laurel’s, Bastien’s, and Raul’s. Youth. Foolish. Such a waste.” Nikola reached for a mug of tea and sniffed the delicate aroma of bergamot orange rind. Earl Grey. He sipped, held the hot liquid in his mouth, and opened his lips a fraction to swallow with a little air. No. China, Indian Darjeeling, Ceylon, and a hint of lapsang souchong teas, flavored not only with bergamot rind but also with lemon and Seville oranges: Lady Grey. “Excellent.”

“A Christmas present. English,” Jenny said. “How can we help, Nikola?”

The scene was set to his satisfaction. Nikola rested his drink on the tray and straightened. “I have pored over the kids’ files.”
Kids
had a nice paternal ring. “Their behavior—breaking and entering a fireworks factory and trying to steal explosives—was stupid and unnatural.”

“Unnatural?” Sean asked.

“Please, allow me.” Nikola waved a hand. “Nothing in their background accounts for their foolishness. I mean, all three have fine families and have benefited from a sound upbringing and a sounder education.” He paused to let the compliment sink in. “Bad company? I’ve explored that angle, and the more I think about it, the more I’m convinced someone
tricked them into acting rashly. Perhaps they didn’t even know the fireworks factory also made high explosives.”

Sean wrung his hands. “Yes, but how can we help?”

“By telling me everything you know about your daughter—her friends, hobbies, her adolescence, childhood, her relationship with you and the rest of the family. The works.”

The air thickened. Just a fraction, but it did. Nikola could have kicked himself for being sloppy. Any decent interrogator knows questions must be dosed one at a time, never bunched like grapes. The pair tensed, an almost imperceptible and fleeting reflex, now gone. Something in his exposition, his shopping list of requests, had triggered a defensive response.

Sean cleared his throat and opened with a lengthy piece about Laurel’s lawyer friends. “We didn’t agree about Laurel sharing a house with another girl and two men, mind you, but you know how stubborn young people can be.”

Nikola nodded, looking at the photographs.

Jenny took over, and for thirty minutes she bared Laurel Cole’s uneventful life, most of which Nikola already knew and a few precious bits he didn’t, like her heartbreak with a young Latino Artificial Intelligence doctor by the name of Luis Cano. He made a mental note to pay a visit to Dr. Cano. Nikola only half listened as Jenny talked; Dennis would be recording their conversation from the van parked outside the house.

A large blackbird landed on the paved patio next to the sliding doors in a flurry of spidery clicks as its claws fought for purchase. Once landed, it strutted about, pecked at something between the paving stones, then took wing. The distraction must have triggered his lazy synapses, for Nikola panned the photograph display again as the incongruity that had troubled him suddenly rushed to the forefront of his mind. Sean and Jenny had alternated stories, details, and anecdotes covering most of the items from his list of suggestions. That was it—most but not all. Nikola nodded when Jenny offered to brew a fresh cup of tea and tried to marshal his thoughts in her absence.

Sean gripped his knees and leaned forward. “Please,
Nikola, help us.” He darted a glance toward the kitchen. “She’s going through hell. I know she hides it well, but our daughter’s sentence has taken the life out of her. Please?”

“I will make it my priority to return your daughter.” Nikola didn’t lie. Sean nodded, and Jenny, approaching again with the tray, smiled for the first time.

Nikola waited until Sean and Jenny had settled down to nurse their drinks before closing his eyes to clear his mind of everything but sounds. “Tell me about Laurel’s childhood.”

His statement was met by silence.

Most interrogators overestimate the possibilities of detecting deceit by watching someone’s behavior and underestimate the chances of catching liars by listening to what they say. They believe liars give themselves away by what they do; Nikola believed the verbal content of what people said, and the way people articulated what they said, betrayed lies.

“Er …” Sean opened after clearing his throat. “She was a quiet girl and … always conscientious. Nobody ever had to remind her to do her homework. She read a lot and—”

“She helped me with the house,” Jenny piped up. “Laurel was very tidy; she would keep her room spotless and all her things in order. I know this sounds strange in this day and age, but she also helped in the kitchen and loved to help with the cooking. Baking was her favorite: cookies and cakes and gingerbread and cupcakes … and she would offer to help around the garden. She liked flowers. There were always freshly cut blooms in a vase by the entrance.”

Nikola nodded once after listening with undivided attention to a showcase of classic lying. Long-winded explanations with many digressions, generalized by making frequent use of words like
always, ever
, and
nobody
, increased the psychological distance between people and the event they described. Of course, there were many more telling nuances in the couple’s tale. Liars often resorted to disclaimers. Jenny had used
I know this sounds strange
and eventually she would have reached for
You won’t believe this, but
or
Let me assure you
—disclaimers designed to acknowledge any suspicion. There had also been pauses between their words and sentences; pauses filled with
ums
and
ers
.

He composed his next question with care now that he knew its answer.
Never ask a question without knowing the reply
was the golden rule for a lawyer cross-examining a witness, and the same could be said of an interrogator. “Was Laurel a good baby?”

Another silence, longer this time. Nikola nodded again, his eyes still closed, savoring the soft rustle of nervous slippered feet.

“Er …” Sean started.

“She gave us no trouble,” Jenny replied. “A very good baby.”

The pitch of someone’s voice was a good indicator of their emotional state, because when people got upset, their voices rose, and Jenny’s voice had hiked noticeably.

Nikola turned toward Jenny and opened his eyes. “Did you breast-feed her?”

Jenny drew a hand to her chest and swallowed as Sean blustered, “What does that have to do with anything?”

“I—”

“Please, Jenny,” Nikola raised a hand and moved to stand up. “Don’t lie. I will forget what you’ve said, because giving false information to a government officer is a punishable offense and I don’t want to cause you any harm. You’ve suffered enough already. But I need to know everything about Laurel to help her, and if you lie to me”—Nikola let the sentence hang in midair like a guillotine—”I won’t be able to return your daughter.” There, he’d done it again.
Naturally, I mean to return Laurel to a position several inches below the surface in a hibernation tank. Center
.

“She’s not our daughter,” Sean blurted.

“Of course she is!” Jenny sprang to her feet, looking very much like a flustered sparrow.

“I mean she’s our adopted daughter. We adopted her when she was five.”

Jenny glared at her husband, then her face seemed to pull inward as she flopped back in her seat, her chest heaving as she broke into sobs.

Sean walked over to his wife and ran a large hand over her hair, lowering his head to whisper cooing sounds.