neighborhood opened in the cab’s headlights, and they drove inside. Ruppert began to understand that it was not a regular taxi, but a discreet way for Terror to move people around.
They stopped in front of Ruppert’s house.
“Remember the agreement you made,” the cabbie said. “I’m supposed to remind you of that. I don’t know anything about it myself, but I’d advise you to stick to whatever agreement you made. The organization does not care for unreliable people.”
“I will,” Ruppert said. He reached into his pocket, found the hard square of his wallet. “Do I pay you, or…?”
The cabbie laughed. “On the house, Jack. Now get out. Nice place you got here.”
The car door beside Ruppert swung open, and Ruppert tried not to look to eager as he climbed out and stepped onto his driveway. He swayed on his unsteady feet; Terror must have tranquilized him for the ride home. He had no idea where he’d been imprisoned or how far away it was.
The cab’s door closed and the taxi drove towards the exit gate. The sky had already brightened a little; it must be morning instead of night. Ruppert stumbled for the front door, groggily aware that something was strung around his neck, swinging with every move. When the motion lights over his door clicked on, he saw it was a lei of fake flowers. They’d dressed him in an absurd outfit, a bright tropical shirt and Bermuda shorts, as if he had just returned from an island vacation.
The front door opened and he continued into his house. Everything looked just as he’d left it; his house had not been searched and gutted like Sully’s. It was hard to believe he’d been gone at all.
“Mr. Ruppert, you have one urgent message waiting,” the house said in its pleasant female voice.
Ruppert shuffled to the video wall in his living room. “Show messages,” he said.
More than a dozen images appeared, but one of them blinked red. It showed George Baldwin, the Terror agent assigned to his GlobeNet office.
“Play the urgent one,” Ruppert said.
The image of Baldwin swelled to take up the whole wall, then it animated. Baldwin was all smiles.
“Daniel,” he said, “George Baldwin from work. Just a quick note to say we hope you enjoyed your vacation, and we’re all looking forward to seeing you back at work on Monday. Rest up this weekend, and be sure and put some ointment on those jellyfish burns. Have a good day, and say hi to your wife for me!” Baldwin’s grinning face froze, then vanished.
In his drugged, disoriented state, Ruppert had forgotten to worry about Madeline, but now an overwhelming fear washed over him. They could have done anything-kept her in custody as a means of controlling him, or brutalized her as a warning.
“Madeline!” he yelled. He went up the stairs, but his balance was poor and he climbed most of the way on his hands and knees. He lurched down the hall, leaning on the wall the whole way, and into the bedroom.
“Madeline?” He entered the master bedroom, and thought immediately of Sully’s bedroom-the shredded mattress, the imprint of blood and hair on one poster.
His bedroom looked fine. Madeline lay in her usual place, the covers bunched up around her. He sat beside her, peeled back the blankets to look at her. She had no visible injuries to her face. He checked each of her hands, and neither of them bore the black tangle of scars that his did. As far as he could tell, she was unharmed.
He touched her dark red hair, then leaned down and kissed her cheek. “I love you, Madeline,” he whispered. Even if it wasn’t strictly true, she was his to protect and care for in a world that grew increasingly hostile, and he didn’t want to see her harmed. They’d both survived this. They could heal from it together.
“Hmm?” She opened her eyes, and her lips snarled. She slapped at his face repeatedly with both hands. “Get back! Get away from me!”
Stunned, Ruppert barely managed to block her flailing hands as he retreated to the far corner of the bed.
“Look, Madeline, I’m sorry. Whatever they did to you, it’s over now.”
“They told me about it, Daniel.”
“What?”
“Don’t act innocent. They told me about her.”
“Who?”
“You know who, Daniel.” Her green eyes burned at him. “Your…girlfriend. How could you do that to me?”
“I don’t know what you mean.” Ruppert hadn’t slept with anyone but Madeline since their wedding. “Madeline, there’s nobody else.”
“They had video!” she screamed. “I saw you doing…nasty things with that ugly brown girl. Unnatural things. Putting it in unnatural places, Daniel.” She looked at the crotch of his Bermuda shorts, and then her lips began to tremble and she turned her head away from him, leaving a wall of red hair between them. “Places God didn’t mean for it to go.”
“It’s not true, Madeline. They can fake video. Easiest thing in the world. You can’t believe something just because you see it on a screen.”
“So what does that mean? You’re on the screen every night. I guess the news is all made up, too.”
“Most of it.”
She let out a screech and hurled a pillow at his face. He didn’t bother knocking it away. At least she had the presence of mind to pick a decorative pillow laden with buttons and beads, a couple of which gouged at his cheek when the pillow hit him.
“Madeline, I’m telling the truth. I never cheated on you.”
“They told me. I know it’s true.”
“Why do you trust them?”
“You have to trust them, Daniel.”
“Even when they kidnap you out of your bed? Did they interrogate you? What did they do?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Madeline-”
“I don’t want to talk to you, either.” She sat back against the headboard and drew the blankets around her. “I need to ask my counselor at church about this. I think it would be best if you slept in the guest room for now.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to talk about it?”
She just stared at him, her mouth a hard flat line. Ruppert stood and walked to the bedroom down to the hall, where he lay on top of the coverlet and throw pillows, but didn’t feel like sleeping. After a few minutes, it occurred to him that Madeline had been dressed in a bright, flowered blouse and a long grass skirt.
He awoke on his side, his right arm numb, daylight boring into his eyes from the guest room window. For a moment he thought it was a dream, that he would wake up again in the frigid Terror cell, and then he remembered how and why they’d brought him home.
He sat up, turned away from the window, and asked, “Time?”
“Six minutes until eleven A.M.,” the house’s voice said in its always-cheerful tone.
“Uh…what day?”
“Saturday, June 23, 2036.”
“Thanks.” He stood and stretched. His right arm was a rubbery dead weight. “Is Madeline here?”
“She is not. Her schedule indicates that she is attending her FaithCrafts group at church. Would you like to contact her?”
“No, that’s okay. Can you make coffee?”
“I would be happy to, Mr. Ruppert, but the coffee maker has not been prepared.”
“Forget it.”
Ruppert took a hot shower, scrubbing days and nights of his own filth off his body. He even used some of Madeline’s scented soaps and an exfoliant full of grape seeds to try and scrape his skin clean.
Afterward, he drifted from room to room in the house, not sure what to do. He figured out he’d only been gone for nine days, though it felt more like a year. The familiar walls and furniture of his home looked alien to him. He’d thought of his house as a safe place, barricaded by walls and digital security systems, but now he saw that any feeling of security was an illusion. The most dangerous people could get to him at any time. They might as well live out in the open, as Sully had.
