“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.
TWELVE
Ruppert fell asleep on the padded cot, which felt like a down-stuffed mattress after countless nights on the cold concrete floor. He awoke in the back seat of a moving car. A yellow taxi cab. A clear panel divided him from the driver, who looked back at him in the rearview mirror.
“Got you moving, huh?” the cabbie said. “You’re almost home. Just take it easy.”
Ruppert became aware of a sour odor flooding his nostrils and the back of his throat. More sour-smelling air poured from the vents overhead. The sky was a dark blue outside, either just before sunrise or just after sunset.
“Where are you taking me?” Ruppert said.
“Like I said, you’re almost home. I got you up just in time. Here we are, pal.” The gates to Ruppert’s walled
