she was doing it, Pegeen thought. It was possible. It was equally possible that nothing whatsoever was happening, that she was just imagining it. He certainly gave no sign that anything was happening; he had not moved since enwrapping her hand in his.
It wasn't sexual, she was almost sure of that. Almost. But she didn't know what else it was. Well, maybe compassion, fellow feeling, something like that. Maybe he just had a higher body thermostat than most, or she did, or something about the two of them in combination caused it. All she was certain of was that she could not stop thinking about the sensation of their two hands together.
And the equal certainty that he must also be aware of it.
She tried to think what she would tell the agent-incharge if he did quiz her about her trip as Becker seemed to think he — might. Would she tell him that nothing hapned, but she sat holding hands with another agent forhow long had it been? It seemed a very long time. Pegeen remembered going to a movie with a boy in her early teens and feeling his hand resting upon her leg throughout the film. She had been so surprised, and nervous, and excited, that she had sat still as a statue for the whole feature, and he, for his part, had not moved an inch. It was only when the lights came on and the hand still did not move that Pegeen had looked to see that she had been pressing her leg against the armrest the whole time.
She stole a glance at the clock on the dashboard. On arrival, she had noted the time to include in her trip report.
She had not been holding his hand for more than a minute.
Or was he holding her hand? She had forgotten.
He turned to her at last and there was real warmth in his smile this time. He squeezed her hand, then let it go.
'Thanks,' he said.
Pegeen felt her ears burning. She knew they would be fiery red, but he didn't seem to notice.
'Did you want me to accompany you or shall I wait in the car?'
' Have you ever been in one of these?' he asked.
'A prison?'
'A cage,' he corrected.
'I've been to plenty of jails.'
'It's not like a jail, a jail is just a holding pen, there's still hope they'll get out. This is a cage. It's different.'
'As part of our training we were shown-'
'I don't mean a tour,' Becker said. 'Have you ever been in one after the warder leaves? When the animals are hungry and feel like turning on each other?'
'No, sir. I haven't. Have you?'
'Do you know the worst part of a place like this?'
'No, sir, I don't,' she said. Continuing to call him sir seemed silly now, but she didn't know how to get out of it. Nor did she know that he would want her to. It's not as if anything happened, she reminded herself, not as if anything really passed between them. That parting squeeze of the hand had been a gesture of camaraderie, nothing more. It was even somewhat condescending, as if she needed the comfort and encouragement. She should have given him the heartening squeeze.
She had paused, expecting him to continue. When he didn't, she asked,
'What is the worst part of a place like this?'
'The smell,' he said.
'The smell?'
'If you ever have a chance, smell it. Deeply. See if you can tell what it is. It will teach you something about what we keep in these cages.
And why.'
He opened the door and cooler air rushed into the car.
Pegeen did not realize how warm it had become in there.
'Do you want me to come with you?'
He turned back, leaned in the open door.
'Do you remember what kills a werewolf?' he asked.
'A stake through the heart?'
'That's a vampire,' Becker said, grinning. 'We're talking werewolves here.'
'I forgot,' she said.
'That's okay,' he said. 'It doesn't come up that often-but when it does, it helps to know. You kill a werewolf with a silver bullet.'
He continued to grin but Pegeen could find no humor in his eyes.
'So when I come out,' he continued, 'if you notice tufts of hair growing on my hands and face, go straight home and melt down the silverware your grandmother gave you.'
He brushed her cheek very lightly with the tip of his finger as if removing a speck of dirt, then turned and walked into the prison. To Pegeen the spot where he touched her burned as if his finger were a match. She felt her ears. Like ovens, two fiery betrayers.
Pegeen remembered everything that had passed between them since Becker got off the airplane. She had registered it all without effort, without conscious thought, the way she did with any exchange, particularly with a man, and she drew it up again now and examined it, probing it for meaning, turning every word and every look in her mind to reveal facets that might hold the clues to what it really meant. It was easy enough to do, she recalled their conversations verbatim. After a moment she put her hand to her cheek once more, gently covering the spot where his finger had grazed her. Amazingly, she could still feel the fire. She held her hand against it to keep it there.
A guard led Becker to the room to be used for the inter view, then left him there while he went to fetch the prisoner. The room was not much bigger than a cell and had the same cinderblock walls, the same sickly green paint.
Instead of a bunk, there was a small table and two chairs, no window except a small opening at eye level in the door. The overhead light bulb was controlled by a switch on the outside of the room. Becker could only guess at the uses to which the room was put customarily. It was certainly not for ordinary interviews, which were conducted under strict, scrutiny with television security cameras, guards within earshot and bulletproof glass separating the prisoner and his visitor. Becker would be alone with his prisoner, free to do what he liked. Hatcher had seen to it, of course. It would have taken someone of his level to arrange this amount of privacy. Becker wondered what Hatcher thought he was going to do with the prisoner that would require this much seclusion. But he didn't spend much time on the idea, he didn't want to waste his energy on the way Hatcher's mind worked.
He stood behind the chair facing the door, trying at first to keep the awful claustrophobic dread of the prison from affecting him, then giving in to it as he would give himself to the surge of the ocean or the silence of the night. There was no point in fighting it, it was too vast, the trick was to survive it.
As always happened when he was in a prison, a spate of self-loathing overtook him. Never far from the surface, the prison smell brought out his guilt, the claustrophobia sucked it forth like a poultice. I belong here, he thought.
I should be in a cage like the rest of them, only the good fortune of my circumstances keeps me out. My impulses are the same, my needs the same as those I put in here.
It's only because I'm useful to them that they don't throw me in, too.
I've done things, been awarded citations for things that would put others on death row. Only my position as a Bureau agent has kept me out and free.
His remunerations were disturbed when the guard returned with a prisoner in tow. The guard withdrew, leaving Becker alone with the prisoner, who stood just inside the door, looking quickly at Becker, then at the room, as if seeking a means of escape.
'Hello,' Becker said.
The man nodded uncertainly, continuing to look nervously around the room. Becker realized that the man half expected Becker to jump on him.
He was a small man, his long hair flowing to his shoulders like a woman's, his prison work shirt opened to his
